


A Second Opinion

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Prescription-verse [2]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-20
Updated: 2005-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 126,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: By Tessabeth and GloriaAs some of you will know,tessabethhas been visiting. We have not spentallour time plotting Jack Shaftoe's course through London and Paris, dear me no: nor gawping at 17th-century weaponry, mattangs and laudanum bottles: nor sampling alcoholic drinks of dubious provenance.Ohno. We've beencollaborating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> By Tessabeth and Gloria
> 
> As some of you will know, [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/)**tessabeth** has been visiting. We have not spent _all_ our time plotting Jack Shaftoe's course through London and Paris, dear me no: nor gawping at 17th-century weaponry, mattangs and laudanum bottles: nor sampling alcoholic drinks of dubious provenance. _Oh_ no. We've been _collaborating_.

**A Second Opinion: Chapter One**  


* * *

  
The figures up in the rigging were distant enough that from the deck -- even from the quarterdeck -- they were little more than wriggling silhouettes, dangling from the yardarm, braced barefoot against the footrope; but through Jack Sparrow's glass, he spied all the glorious detail of Jack Shaftoe's determined attempts at reefing. Shaftoe might be no sailor, but he was learning fast, to be sure; and he was strong, and willing, and unafraid up there, a combination of attributes which weren't always easy to find in one single body. Let alone in a body like that one. Jack let the glass wander up from Shaftoe's curl-toed feet (which would be rawly sore tonight; they weren't yet hardened to walking on rope, and Jack entertained a cunning plan in which Jack Shaftoe's feet were placed in his care, ostensibly to be soothed and treated. But Jack Sparrow knew now of several tender places in the vicinity of those poor reddened soles that would soon turn Shaftoe's mind, and body, to other concerns); past the sharp tendons that ran up from his heel (Jack's tongue recalled the smooth skin of that hollow, there, behind the proud hillock of anklebone); up, and there the kindly and co-operative breeze flattened the thin fabric of Shaftoe's breeches against the convex line of his thighs, and the tensed curve of his backside. Jack grinned, and licked his lips; raised the glass a little further, and was treated to the sight of Jack Shaftoe leering shamelessly down at him, and making a rather ungentlemanly gesture with the hand that should be being used to keep himself steady.

Jack could not hold back a bark of laughter, nor the warm surge of cheer in his belly; the former should, however, have been restrained, for it brought Bill Turner's attention to him, and now Jack had been caught out, abusing his Captain's Equipment for the purposes of base self-amusement.

"If you've quite finished?" enquired Bill with a long-suffering look that would have annoyed Jack, if he wasn't feeling quite so irrepressibly cheery.

"I think I've seen enough for now," Jack agreed equably.

"And the town?"

"See for yourself," said Jack, and magnanimously handed over his glass; Bill took it, and extended it to its fullest reach, the better to see the detail of Port Royal, small on the horizon still.

"Calm as a summer's day, eh, and none the worse for wear?" said Jack happily. "Except for that black bit up in the corner there. And no Spanish ships to be seen. Not a thing to worry about, mate." But he could tell by the set of Bill's jaw that he remained unconvinced.

It was a fine thing, generally, to have a man like Bill Turner about; a man so steady, a man so reliable. But there were other occasions when it didn't half grate. Had to be chivvied into everything, he did, and always with that faint air of incipient disapproval lurking about him. It brought out Jack's most reckless side; burst the feeble gates that held it restrained, and made it flail about in happy abandon. Especially on days when Jack was feeling this merry. He had his ship, and his crew; their financial situation was delightfully liquid; the weather was fine, and he'd a plan of sorts, and plenty of time to carry it out; oh, all those things made him happy. But none of them made him quite so happy as the best thing of all, being the presence of Jack Shaftoe on his ship, and in his bed, and in his nights.

"You know what I'd counsel, Jack," said Bill rather grimly. "No Spanish ships, true enough; yet we've no idea who might be in the town. And we've no idea how the rest of 'em are likely to react to our arrival, given the... outcome of our last visit."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes; but there are supplies here, ain't there, supplies that we need?"

"You know what I think about _that_ plan, an' all. And you had warrants out before you even thought of burning down de Braxas' house, and killing all his men; d'ye think they won't want you, now?"

"Jesus wept, William, must you be such a killjoy today?" cried Jack, still unquenchably happy despite all these dire warnings; and his happiness doubled as he felt a hand on his back, and heard Jack Shaftoe say, "What's this, Bill? You don't think that treasure's retrievable?"

Bill lowered the glass, pushing it closed against his callused palm, and turned. "We all saw what that creature did to Jack," he said. "And we don't even know what's supposed to be down there. Might be nothing. So weigh up those two facts, and then tell me how that makes it a reasonable course of action, eh?"

"Fuck reasonable," said Jack Shaftoe. "It'll be _fun_."

Oh, how Jack adored him.

"How long till we reach port?" continued Shaftoe, and his fingers squeezed, just gently, at Jack's waist; as if to say, _have we time for...?_ and Jack's blood surged.

"We're not going into port," said Bill stubbornly.

"What?" demanded Shaftoe, with a confused glance at Jack. "But I thought --"

Jack fought back a sigh, and struggled to appear impartial. "Mr Turner here's convinced me that it's bad enough to be turning up here again so soon, and to be on the lookout for more of that naphtha, without bringing the _Pearl_ right into Port Royal. We're making for the next harbour over; then we'll take a cutter round, and try to be... inconspicuous."

Shaftoe's blue gaze raked him up and down, speaking volumes, and he snorted in laughter. Bill shook his head and for once, the two of them were in agreement against Jack.

"I bloody well _can_ , if I want to," insisted Jack. "You'll see. 'Sides which, the last few weeks've obliterated most of me distinguishing wardrobe elements. I need a new hat, at the very least." He winced, even as the words left his mouth; realised instantly that it wasn't yet, nor might never be, time to joke about what'd befallen poor Cooper.

There was a small and painful silence, but Shaftoe rescued him from it, blithe and argumentative, distracting them all with: "Well, if Bill here hasn't the balls --sorry, I mean, is too _reasonable_ \-- to come with you, I'll come."

"I've got all the bloody --" started Bill, stepping angrily towards grinning Jack Shaftoe, and Jack put up a hand to stop him.

"Peace, Bill," he said, "cain't you see the man's doing it to you a-purpose? Shut it, Mr Shaftoe, and be thankful that there are sensible men like Mr Turner around to keep the worthless hides of such as us safe from disaster." He cuffed Shaftoe's head, fondly; mostly just for the chance to feel that thick straw against his palm. "Bear west, Bill; bear west, and we'll find our dear girl some sweet resting spot where she'll be safe in your care till Mr Shaftoe and I've completed our errand."

*

It wasn't only Mr Shaftoe that sat in the cutter, rigged with a single lateen sail and making its way around the final headland to Port Royal, whose ramshackle buildings glowed creamily in the late afternoon sun, looking far finer from a distance than they ever would up close. Martingale was there too, and Stone; the latter for his unremarkable, Everyman features (at least until he smiled, revealing a random set of blackened stumps that no man could look upon with equanimity) and the former because he'd pleaded so, insisting upon his fitness-the wound he'd sustained in St Lucia did seem to've knit well and clean-and obviously quite desperate to prove that he was no liability, despite what'd happened up on the slopes of La Sorcière.

And, of course, Jack Sparrow; who might be wearing the plainest weskit he could find, over a suitably grubby linen shirt, and might even have tied his great tangle of hair back behind his neck, but still, to Jack Shaftoe's eyes, there was nothing even remotely inconspicuous about the man. Never had been; doubtless never would be. He sat there, leaning back against the shallow transom, one lazy hand over the tiller; and everything about him, every line of his body, every colour and shadow, every sound that he made, seemed to Jack to be the most wonderful instance of that line, that colour, that sound, that had ever been.

Sparrow glanced over, and caught Jack staring at him. "Everything all right there, Mr Shaftoe?"

"Never better," said Jack with a grin and a wink; and the wolfish smile that Sparrow shot him back flushed through him like fire. Brought an unbidden rush of memories to him; the recall of waking that morning to the gentle touch of a callused palm sliding up his thigh, cupping his hip. To the tickling heat of Jack Sparrow's close breath on his neck. To a half hour's slow, deliberate teasing, in which Sparrow's greatest pleasure seemed to be Jack's growing, fervent need and his own power to deny it, giving Jack what he wanted only in the tiniest of increments. It was a torture, but oh, such a pleasurable torture that it was a long time before Jack let himself give in, and bear Jack Sparrow down, and do what he must until those gasping pleas, _please, please_ , came not from Jack but from his erstwhile torturer.

" _Never_ better?" said Sparrow, with a sly tilt of his head.

The afternoon light shone across his angled neck, showing skin lighter than the rest, where his hair was all pulled back and away. Jack suppressed the urge to move closer, to lay his lips on that sweet place; and then frowned.

"What's that, Jack?"

"What?"

"There," Jack said, and reached out, running his fingers over the rough red mark.

"Nothing," said Sparrow, twitching away. "A scratch. A rope-burn, from when I was aloft yesterday. Naught."

"Oh," said Jack, and he grinned. "Thought for a minute I might've left a mark on you, but I haven't, it seems."

 _Oh,_ said the look on Jack Sparrow's face (or at least, this was how Jack chose to interpret it); _oh, you've left your mark on me, all right_.

The wharf was looming, all busy with the shouts of stevedores and customs men, the piercing cries of small boys, the slap of waves on the pilings. Jack and his captain pulled on knitted caps; Stone spoke for them, paid their mooring fee, and led the way into the town.

"Where do we start, Captain?" said Martingale.

"Jamie, call me Jack; don't want you to go making me all _conspicuous_ ," said Sparrow, with a wicked sideways glance that made Jack's lips twist into a grin.

"Um... where do we start, Jack?" said Martingale, grinning through a flush to be speaking to his worshipped captain in such a way.

"Last place we saw the stuff, of course," said Sparrow. "VandenVoort's home."

"Not much chance it'll still be there," said Stone.

"He didn't ask me where we'd _find_ it," snapped Sparrow suddenly, stopping in his tracks and glaring at his crewman. Jack turned to look at him, surprised by this uncharacteristic irritation. "He asked me where we'd start _looking_ for't."

"I was just sayin' --" said Stone hotly.

"If you've no sense to speak, keep your trap shut," said Sparrow. Stone subsided, but Jack could see the muscle at the corner of his jaw working hard, and felt bad for him. Lord knew where that'd come from; Sparrow'd seemed so happy a moment beforehand, had seemed so happy all day. Sparrow wasn't, Jack supposed, a man to suffer fools; but usually he dealt to foolishness with mocking wit and a smile, not with a sharp tongue and a scowl.

"Here," Jack said, spotting a shortcut and pleased of the distraction; "down here." He ducked into a narrow, evil-smelling alleyway, and the others followed.

"I can smell burning," said Martingale softly, and Jack sniffed.

"Old," he said. "But aye, burnt; p'rhaps -- ah, shit!"

They turned the corner of the alley, and there before them stood the charred stumps of what had been Cornelisz VandenVoort's home.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
Jack Sparrow's thoughts were all a-mazed -- must be the sun, low in the sky though it was, for he hadn't drunk especially much rum this afternoon -- and for a long moment he could do nothing but stand there in the street, gawping at the blackened stones and inky timbers of the ruined house. The reek of burning lingered still, though no smoke rose through the warm humid air. Some of the stonework had been raked together in untidy heaps. Jack stared at these stupidly.

"Some other chap's blown hisself to kingdom come," said Shaftoe, waving a hand. "Powerful stuff, that naphtha, Jack: you saw --"

"It wasn't the naphtha," said Jack, vaguely surprised at his own cleverness. " _You_ saw, Mr Shaftoe, how hot it burns, with the correct receipt." Shaftoe smirked, no doubt recalling his various Demonstrations. "An' yet there's whole beams there, not perished."

"Might take a couple with us, eh, Jack?" said Martingale eagerly. "Always handy, a good solid bit of timber."

"You're going to carry them, are you, mate? Nah, I reckon --"

"Ssssh!" said Stone, laying his hand on Jack's arm and drawing him back into the pungent alleyway. Jack went quietly, resisting the urge to shrug off Stone's hold, for a bunch of blokes were coming towards them -- towards the burnt-out house -- along the street, making enough noise to wake the dead, and hung about with an assortment of ironmongery that Jack, squinting, identified as implements of carpentry. At the head of this little salvage party came a chap in finer clothes, red-faced and puffing with exertion, though he was carrying nothing but a bundle of sacking.

"Ain't that the fellow we saw here before?" murmured Shaftoe against Jack's ear, making him shiver. "That bloke who went on so about the smell?"

"Aye," said Jack. "C'mon, let's make some enquiries." And before anyone could prevent him, he'd stepped out into the street, hand raised to hail the approaching men.

Martingale swore, and Jack heard him cock his pistol. But Jack Shaftoe came after him, falling into step, and Jack could not restrain a grin at his own invulnerability.

"Hey, sir!" he called. "What's happened here, then?"

The stout fellow halted and turned to scowl at them. "No business of yours, sir!" His companions hung back, muttering amongst themselves and eyeing Jack and Shaftoe suspiciously. No doubt Stone and Martingale had made 'emselves scarce: Jack hoped they were covering him.

"On the contrary," he said, with an elaborate bow, "I had the honour to make Meinheer vandenVoort's acquaintance, when last I visited your charming town. I heard he'd met --"

"Ain't that the lot who did for old de Braxas?" said one of the men, deliberately loud.

Beside him, Shaftoe stiffened (Jack took a moment to marvel at his awareness of Jack Shaftoe's every move), but he did not speak. The red-faced man was scowling at the two of them more purposefully now, and Jack was briefly distracted by an attempt to recall whether he'd used any particular pseudonym, that time that Shaftoe and he had come here to lesson vandenVoort on the correct (or, to be perfectly honest, _incorrect_ ) use of all that naphtha.

"An' if we are?" said Jack, cocking an eyebrow.

The fellow who'd spoken looked around at his companions, who variously grimaced and shrugged and shook their heads. "Just sayin'," he concluded. "Good riddance, eh?"

"Indeed," said Jack Sparrow, smiling sharp and bright at them all. "Now, gentlemen, I was wondering if any of you might know who bought up -- or, shall we say, _acquired_ \-- vandenVoort's goods?"

Some glances were exchanged, but nothing forthcoming. Shaftoe leaned closer (though not close enough) and said softly, "You're right that it can't've been here when the house went up, Jack: that there'd be nothing left: so let the bastards know that you know it."

"Come, gentlemen!" said Jack. "You know the goods I'm speaking of; why, you, sir, you saw us deliver it to Meinheer with your own eyes. Our payment was incomplete; and now that Meinheer is in no position to remedy that, we must find some other means of... recompense." He put a gentle, smiling threat into these words, and saw Jack Shaftoe's hand slide lasciviously over the hilt of his sword - oh, a fine team they made, and it warmed Jack's heart.

It had quite a different effect on at least one of their interlocutors, as intended. "That'd be that young upstart," offered somebody. "Funny-sounding name. Came in the night, din't 'e?"

The stout man -- name of Smith, Jack was almost positive -- nodded, pinch-faced. "Nothing we could do, sir. He had a Bill of Sale -- no doubt a forgery -- and came with six strong men to take delivery. Ungrateful puppy!"

"That was before the house burned down, then?" said Shaftoe, blandly civil.

"It went up the very next night!" cried Smith. "Burned for hours, it did: we were hard-pressed to keep the blaze from spreading to our own homes. 'Twas only to be expected, of course, with the man keeping such infernal concoctions on the premises." He looked at Jack Shaftoe askance. "Were you not an _Associate_ of his, sir? I believe I recall your previous visit."

Jack could not help but watch Shaftoe from the corner of his eye, to see how he'd get out of this one. But Shaftoe was shaking his head gravely -- a mannerism which Jack recognised, with a start, from Enoch's repertoire -- and saying, "Oh, we tried to turn him aside from his perilous track, sir: but I'm sure you'll agree that some men are too puffed with pride, too confident in their learning, to consider the consequences for themselves and their neighbours. 'Tis a wonder that he lived as long as he did, for --"

"Yes, yes," said Jack hurriedly, glancing up at the darkening sky. "Well, sirs, have you any notion where we might seek the foreign gentleman?"

From the confused babble of the work-party, it seemed that they did not. But one man -- a tall, steady-looking fellow with a long red burn all down his left cheek -- said diffidently that he'd seen the gent down at the harbour. "In the common tavern, sir: I dare not say what company he kept."

"I only hope," said Jack earnestly, "that we have come in time to save him from the consequences of his actions."

* * *

There was something alarmingly fey about Jack Sparrow, in this mood: a mercurial shifting from one moment to the next, so that Jack hung back a little, reluctant to say anything lest it disrupt Sparrow's plan. He was looking forward to finding out what that plan might be: looking forward, too, to being away from the cindery husk of vandenVoort's house (not that _he'd_ care, having doubtless ended up in a far hotter place) and from Smith, who was casting sharp looks at the two of them, perhaps trying to reconcile their sudden, dishevelled appearance with some Opportunity for himself. Also, of course, looking forward to the chance to tease Sparrow about the indubitable failure of his attempt to look inconspicuous. To Jack he seemed to shine, to glow in the last of the light: though perhaps Smith and his gang did not see it so.

They took their leave with all politesse, though Jack's hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, and turned to make their way back down toward the dockside, where the town's ramshackle collection of taverns and bawdy-houses sprawled most close and prolific. Afternoon was turning to dusk, and dull purple clouds were obscuring the last of the sun, promising thundery rain that would, Jack hoped, release the heavy sparky dampness of the air; it would take more than a rainstorm, though, to release the sparky weight inside Jack himself, and he smiled at the coming dark, for these days it never failed to bring with it strange and glorious pleasures and reliefs.

They reached the strand, close to the wharf, and Sparrow came to a sudden halt.

"Right," he said. "Four of us, and more than four people to ask questions of; I say we split up, for we'll find out more that way. Also, of course, we'll be far less _conspicuous_ , eh, Mr Shaftoe?"

Jack grinned. Martingale nodded sagely, and said, "Yes, Cap-- I mean, Jack -- shall Mr Shaftoe and I go this-a-way, and --"

Sparrow laughed, and said, "I can only admire you for your taste and perseverance, Jamie Martingale, though you've no more sense than a puppy. Go thataway if it please you, and Mr Shaftoe and _I_ will go this."

Martingale flushed, but grinned. Jack reflected on the strangeness of a world in which he, Jack Shaftoe, could be the acknowledged object of a young man's fancy and yet that fact be nothing but a gentle joke between 'em all.

Sparrow fished a handful of coins from the soft leather purse that hung from his belt on a heavy brass fob, and gave them to Stone. "Here; use it for information if need be, and have fun with the rest. We ain't likely to get back aboard tonight; look for us if you find anything of use, and if you don't, we'll see you back here in the morning, eh? Bright and early?"

Jack privately read the greedy expression on Stone's face, and the way he licked at his lips, as an indicator that _bright and early_ was a singularly unlikely prediction, but didn't feel inclined to argue; not when he was being given the chance to spend an evening ashore with plenty of drink and the most pleasurable company he'd ever met in his life.

He turned away as Sparrow was giving Martingale and Stone their last minute instructions; turned and gazed up the street. There, not far to his left, was the battered wooden shingle of the Mermaid.

His cheeks warmed to see it, for that was the place he'd spent his last night ashore. The place he'd spent his last night with a _woman_ , back when he was still so very determined not to be caught up in Jack Sparrow's tempting oddity. It seemed so foolish, now; now that he knew the wild heights of pleasure that awaited him in that man's embrace. But then, oh, back then, he'd been a different man. A man who'd scowled and frowned to see John Burton and Ben Cooper all twined up together on the settle.

That thought made him briefly maudlin, till it was eclipsed by another memory, of that whore's cheeky smile, and her whispered confessions about those two. Jack's head spun at the idea of that, and he pushed the thought down, though he couldn't quite repress a smile. _Job to do_ , he told himself firmly. _Just do the job, and then..._

A warm press of hand on his back -- well, possibly too low to be truly considered his back, and moving a little lower still -- brought him back to the strand, and to Sparrow's presence.

"So, mate," muttered Sparrow over his shoulder, "looks like it's just thee and me. Hope you ain't too disappointed that I sent your little admirer off in the other direction?"

"Depends," said Jack, pushing back just a little against that long-fingered hand, "on how _admiring_ you're willing to be in his stead."

"I couldn't possibly confess the true depths of my admiration, not without swelling your head e'en further, Mr Shaftoe." This came in a low murmur that seemed to shiver its way deep into Jack's bones, and he experienced a swelling all right, though not above the neck. He shifted uncomfortably as a great swarthy fellow driving a dray along the waterfront gave the pair of them a narrowed stare, as if he knew exactly what the thoughts were in Jack's head, and disapproved mightily.

"Come on," said Jack hastily. "Let's get this done, eh? And then, Jack... ah, then I'll admire you back, for all I'm worth."


	3. A Second Opinion, Chapter Three

  
  
  
Jack Sparrow had little predisposition towards any particular one or another of the selection of waterside taverns, salubrious and un-, in which to begin their search; but Shaftoe headed determinedly past the first, dragging Jack in his wake, not by means of hand or any other part of his admirable form, but through that simple magnetism that he exercised, effortless, over Jack's corpus.

"Here, this one," said Shaftoe, and he halted before a rickety two-storied building and glanced over his shoulder with a perfectly wicked glint to his eye. "I know a girl here, as might have some useful information for us."

Jack did not like to reflect on the means by which Shaftoe might've made this girl's acquaintance, especially given the blatantly disreputable air of the place and the inevitable nature of any female who might be found therein. Jealousy; a terrible emotion to suffer from, and Jack countered its roiling effects by going on the offensive. "Oh, aye," he said, offhandedly; "I believe I know a few girls here, meself."

Shaftoe paused on the doorstep, head ducked to avoid the low lintel. " _Know_ 'em, do you?" he asked, and there was a smile on his face, though it was a toothy one, and Jack could see little amusement in it.

"Know 'em well! Know 'em inside and out, you might say," claimed Jack, insufferably cheered by the tightness of Shaftoe's smile, and the way it mirrored his own discomfort at the thought of Shaftoe's knowledge of this _friend_ of his. Peripatetic creatures, whores; for all Jack knew, his claim might even be a valid one.

It was dim inside, this side of the bay having already lost the last of the sunlight; there were a fair number of sailors and ruffians about, some of whom looked up at their entrance, but more of whom were happily distracted by their mugs of ale and the wide range of apparently obliging girls. Shaftoe stopped short inside the doorway; peered about. He did not have to look long. There came a cry of "Jack!" from the far end of the bartop, and a curly-haired blonde lass, curvy as any hourglass, slid from the lap of some poor half-cut fellow and came scampering towards them.

Jack'd turned at the sound of his name, and squinted in the approaching girl's direction. He told himself he recognised her, why of course he did; he'd learned the hard way to always pretend to be glad to see any woman who seemed to have some prior knowledge of him, whether or not he had any recall of the source of said knowledge, so he smiled wide and held out his arms for the girl.

Who gave him an uncertain glance, and promptly wrapped her arms about Jack Shaftoe's neck. Jack, left empty-armed and foolish, pretended to be stretching, and Shaftoe laughed at him, giving him a wink as he put a hand to the girl's waist.

"Nettie, my love!" said Shaftoe. "Grand to see you, and to see how fine you're keeping; but, sweetheart, you've confused my poor friend, here; for he's Jack also, you know. And he's far more worthy of your 'ffectionate greeting than I, I assure you."

Nettie bobbed her head at Jack, twirling a ringlet about her finger and blushing prettily, and declared herself delighted to make his acquaintance, adding with a tilt of her head, "Though I do think I may've met you afore now, sir; for I do meet a lot of fine gents, in my line of work, you understand"; then took firm hold of Jack Shaftoe's hand and led him inside, deeper into the beery, smoky fug of the place.

"I'll get the drinks, then, shall I?" said Jack, grudgingly, to Shaftoe's broad retreating back.

The barkeep gave him a narrow-eyed stare, and Jack essayed a smile which he hoped might be read as one of, simultaneously, ingratiation and warning (never an easy combination to pull off). There were still a number of people locally who'd be fairly keen to lay their hands on him, mostly -- but not exclusively -- people of the Authoritative Sort, though he'd have guessed that this fellow wasn't in the habit of turning in his clientèle to the law, on the basis of economic wisdom if nothing more Philosophickal. He ordered rum, and overpaid with a careful glance which clarified that this was intention rather than ignorance; the man looked at the coins, and at Jack, and said, "You lookin' for something more than the contents of my cellar, then, sir?"

"Local knowledge wouldn't go astray," said Jack, and leant forward as if he were talking of something very secret and important. "Local knowledge of local businessmen, in fact."

"What sort of business might we be talking of?" said the barkeep, cleaning out a tankard with a cloth that made Jack send up a silent prayer for the continued well-being of his digestive system.

" _Chymical_ business," he murmured.

The man's mouth twitched up at the corners. "Thought as much. You and your man there're with the lot as was here a month or two back, ain't you; the ones as set that fire, and old vandenVoort, mad old bastard, he weren't never seen again after setting off with you."

"A series of unhappy accidents, no design, I fear," said Jack in tones of vague protestation.

"Hope you ain't too _accident_ -prone," said the landlord with a black look, "or you'll not stay welcome here, I'll tell you straight."

Jack raised his hands. "Didn't start any of it, mate. Was only after recovering what was mine. As I am now."

"And what is it that you're after recovering, then?"

"Oh, just some goods," said Jack. "But what you might call _specialist_ goods. And I'm wondering if Meinheer vandenVoort had any... colleagues, that might've recovered those goods from his premises prior to the unfortunate conflagration. The _second_ unfortunate conflagration, that is."

But the conversation, having appeared to go so well up to this point, came to an abrupt halt with a terrific crash from over by the fireplace. Jack recognised it as the sound of an overturned table, one chair, and (if he wasn't mistaken) at least three tankards; but it was hard to be certain about that, due to the volume of bull-like roaring that accompanied it. He sighed, and whipped his drinks out of the way as the landlord shouldered his way out from behind the bar, yelling any number of blood-drenched threats, to put a stop to it all.

Ah well, p'rhaps Shaftoe was having more --

"'Ello, Capitaine," came a murmur at his shoulder, a murmur that sent a frisson of memory down Jack's spine. Now this one, this one, he definitely remembered.

*

It was the strangest thing, and to any man less accustomed to living side-by-side and hand-in-hand with discombobulation might've been rather discomforting, but Jack Shaftoe was actually finding it rather enjoyable to simultaneously be attracted to the warm soft curves and flowery smells of the girl in his lap, and yet to know perfectly well that he craved, equally much, the hard sinewy heat of his (his, oh surely his, despite all those pointed comments about girls, and _knowing_?) man. Who seemed to've disappeared en route; but would surely reappear anon, and meanwhile, Nettie seemed most delightfully pleased to be making Jack's acquaintance once more.

"I din't think you'd be back, surely I din't," she was saying breathlessly, "not after all that to-do with that Spanish chap. I heard it was a terrible business an'all, though I din't know him, not a bit; not one who'd come in here, that fellow."

"Nasty piece of work," Jack concurred, and then thought to win some sympathy by flourishing his bandaged hand upon the table. "You'll never guess what he did to me, love."

Nettie's pretty mouth opened as wide and round as her eyes as he pulled off the wrapped linen -- 'twasn't needed any more, he wore it mostly to remind the other men of his terrible suffering and get out of work that he didn't fancy doing -- and wriggled his fingers, or three fingers and a stump, at her.

She drew in a quavering breath, and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh my! Oh, Jack, you poor man! Oh, oh, oh!" She took his hand in hers, small and soft, and pressed it to her breast. "Oh! The beast! No wonder you burned his house down, my love!"

Jack sighed bravely and did not bother to correct this assumption. Didn't seem at all necessary to reassign credit to Jack Sparrow, and neither to mention his reasons for doing so. Interesting, this; for Nettie was making it inescapably clear that Jack was her preferred company for this evening (his hand had not yet been released, and indeed was being clutched most forcefully against delightfully heaving flesh). And yet... yet... all Jack's thoughts, this afternoon, had been focussed on getting Jack Sparrow all to himself, all alone in some high attic room, with a soft straw mattress, and watching him come undone even as Jack himself did. A situation which certainly hadn't changed, even though all these other opportunities and alternatives were presenting 'emselves.

But perhaps those thoughts of Jack and Jack, entwined and retorted, were not Jack Sparrow's thoughts, or not any longer; for here he was, looming out of the noisy dimness, all gold teeth and mischief, one bony hand clutched about the thin wrist of, oh Lord, it _was_ ; it was that other girl, Sparrow's own doppelgänger, that Nathalie; and Jack's jaw sagged to see the two of them, there together.

"Nathalie," he said, gawping, and Sparrow affected the greatest horror, and cried, "Don't tell me _this_ young lady's a particular friend of yours, an' all, Jack!"

"Not _particular_ ," said Jack. "I just... well, I recall her. She's very, ah, distinctive."

"Ain't she lovely?" cooed Nettie, and Nathalie put a hand to the other girl's cheek, giving it an affectionate pinch and wrinkling up her nose. Sparrow sat down and pulled Nathalie onto his knee, giving Jack a look that said, quite clearly, _sauce for the goose, mate_. Jack shifted uncomfortably under the warm pressure of Nettie's skirts and rounded thighs.

"Nettie, did you not remember our Capitaine?" said Nathalie, laying a long thin arm about Sparrow's shoulders. Nettie cocked her head, and frowned, and then her eyes went wide. "Never!" she cried. "Captain Jack Sparrow, ain't it? There, I was sure I knew you, but I never twigged who you was! Oh, however could I've forgot?"

"Keep it down, sweetheart," said Sparrow. "I'm rather too popular for my own good, in these parts."

"Certainly," said Nettie in a conspiratorial stage whisper which would've carried through to the next tavern. "But I'd hardly know you, Jack, for that dashin' pirate captain what spent that night with us."

"That's 'cause I'm being _inconspicuous_ ," said Jack Sparrow, and he raised his eyebrows at Jack; who would've laughed, were he not quite so preoccupied with Nettie's wriggling, and the press of Sparrow's knee against his own, beneath the table.

"Why?" said Nathalie, and she tugged the villainous knitted cap from Sparrow's head, holding it between finger and thumb as if it were a dead animal.

"Because we're not here for any trouble," put in Jack. "We're after information, girls; and it seems to me that you two must know most all that goes on in this town, eh?" He favoured Nettie with a wink and an offer of a sip of his drink, which was interpreted as an offer to empty his mug. Sparrow refilled it without asking.

"What do you want to know?" said Nathalie.

"Who might've taken some items from the home of Cornelisz vandenVoort, the Dutchman whose house burned down; some alchemical substances, they've no value save to those as know how they might be used," said Sparrow. "Barrels of it, a dozen or more. We heard there was some foreign cove who'd taken possession of it. Stole it, really. Ours, by rights. You'd be doin' us both a great favour, should you know where we can find 'im."

As he spoke, he shifted his leg, nestling his knee in close against Jack's thigh. Jack felt Nettie jump as the knee pushed at her skirts, and she turned, arching an eyebrow and giving him a definite Look. He stared back, defiant and admitting nothing; but should've known better than to try to confound a girl like this one. Nettie leaned across, and beckoned Nathalie forward; the two girls whispered at one another, cheek to cheek, and Nettie wriggled energetically upon Jack's lap.

Sparrow's arm was about Nathalie's waist, but his gaze was all for Jack; dark, heated, unreadable. Jack did not know why the pirate was all twined about his whorish twin; did not know what he wanted, what _either_ of them wanted, and it was all confusing, and arousing, and far beyond his ken.

Nettie sat back. Sparrow said, "Well?" And Nathalie smiled very whitely, and said, "Nettie and I think that we would like to do you this great _favour_ , messieurs. We think we would like it, very much; and we think you would, too."


	4. A Second Opinion, Chapter Four

  
  
Jack was very nearly sure that he'd been here before: aye, and in similar sweet company too. There was something achingly familiar about the creak of the stairs, the giggle of Nettie ahead of him and the breathy laugh of Nathalie, behind. Aching, aye, and familiarity wasn't the half of it, though Jack was starting to remember (or perhaps to _imagine_ ) some especially athletic and inspirational feats: his yard swelled accordingly, though perhaps that had more to do with the fourth of their party, Jack Shaftoe, who was climbing the stairs behind Nathalie, muttering to himself, and behaving -- else surely Nathalie would be making more of it -- like a perfect gentleman.

Jack really, really hoped he wasn't going to be a spoilsport.

After all, Shaftoe'd greeted that invitation -- "we would like to do you some great favour, messieurs" -- just as it deserved, with open-mouthed gawping and, after a while, appreciative stuttering, and a call to the barmaid for a bottle or two to take along with them. He hadn't seemed shy or coy at the notion of sharing a bed, not only with Jack himself, but with a pair of delightful and affectionate females. Wasn't it every bloke's secret desire, to have two of 'em at once? Though perhaps (Jack smirked to himself, and nearly missed a step) Jack Shaftoe'd gone off women, lately, having learned what he'd been missing.

"Do you think it will take long, to learn from us all you wish to know?" said Nathalie, so nearly echoing Jack Sparrow's thoughts that he peered at her suspiciously.

They had reached the girls' boudoir, or perhaps 'twas merely their place of employment: either way, there was a bed, and a rail on which hung two or three drab and threadbare frocks, and a scrap of blotchy mirror on the wall. Jack frowned to see it -- to see it again, indeed, for now he remembered, and was glad (though not, of course, surprised) that they'd remembered _him_ \-- but no matter: the bed was big enough for all of them, and Nathalie was stretching herself out to best advantage on it, looking at him rather exasperatedly from behind lowered lashes, and tugging at his hand.

"Could take all night, I reckon," said Shaftoe cheerfully, twisting round in Nettie's soft hold and tipping her off-balance so that she tumbled down next to her friend in the dip at the bed's centre. The two of them clutched at each other, giggling.

"What d'you think, Jack?" Shaftoe went on, slipping his arm round Jack's waist with surprising boldness. "All night, is it?"

Jack was seized by several different impulses -- to rebuff Shaftoe on the basis that _he_ was no tuppenny whore to be cuddled and pawed; to lean into that warm embrace and have Jack Shaftoe give him everything he'd been craving, on and off, all day; to enlist Nathalie's help, and Nettie's, and turn the tables on Mr Jack Shaftoe -- and was so racked with indecision that he could do nothing save raise his eyebrows, and say, "All depends, doesn't it?"

"What's it depend on?" enquired Shaftoe, eyes fixed on the two girls.

Jack reached out and pulled Shaftoe towards him, close enough that their mouths might've kissed, close enough that Shaftoe was looking at _him_ again: and into the space between them, low and clear, he said, "On this great _favour_ that they're so keen to do for us."

"Mmm," said Jack Shaftoe, pressing close in a way that left Jack quite sure that _someone_ , at least one someone, in this room was affecting Shaftoe quite delightfully.

"Well, ladies," he said briskly, stepping away from Shaftoe. "What's the nature of this favour, eh? Since you've brought us to a private room to bestow it upon us, I surmise it's an _exclusive_ offer; but how shall we receive it, eh? Shall we stand, or sit, or --"

"Oh, _stand_ ," said Nettie, and dissolved into a fizz of giggles.

"Per'aps," said Nathalie, tongue prodding pinkly at the corner of her mouth, "you and Mr Shaftoe might reassure us of your regard for one another, eh, Capitaine?"

"How's that, mam'selle?" said Shaftoe, frowning. "Our regard?"

"You said it was _disgusting_ , what we did," said Nettie indignantly. "O, Nat, I ain't doin' nothing if he ain't changed 'is tune."

Nathalie smiled slowly at Shaftoe, whose mouth was opening and closing in a way that made Jack want to put it to better use. "Well, Mr Shaftoe, we would not wish to _disgust_ you, no. Per'aps you should leave, eh, and let your Capitaine stay?"

"'M not disgusted," said Shaftoe faintly.

"Then you must prove it," said Nathalie, with a becoming frown, and spoilt it by winking at Jack. "Do unto your Capitaine as I do to my love, eh?" And she pulled Nettie t'wards her and pressed a chaste kiss on the blonde girl's painted mouth.

At first Jack thought Shaftoe would not; that observation by anyone at all, and not only his shipmates, was sufficient to quell his libido. But he put his hand slowly to Jack's shoulder, and leaned in, and his mouth, oh gradually gradually, met Jack's. The slowness made Jack tremble and ache; he longed to seize Shaftoe and kiss him back, remind him what it was they had and did and made. Instead, he stayed passive and pliant, though he could not keep from grinning at the girls when that tremulous kiss was done.

"Again!" said Nettie merrily, and tilted her face to Nathalie's, and kissed her: kissed properly this time, for Jack could see the corners of their mouths moving against each other. He swelled more at the thought, the memory, of the two of them trading kisses over his naked chest that time: perhaps they might be persuaded to do that, or more, again.

But first Jack Shaftoe must be brought round to this manner of behaviour: and Jack swayed closer, unwilling to initiate the kiss if Shaftoe did not want it, but hoping very much -- aching for it, in fact -- that he did.

Oh, Jack Shaftoe's kiss! Never mind that he was flushed, that his eyes were closed, that his hands were fisted against Jack's back, he kissed like Jack Shaftoe all right, all fire and heat and want and strength, and it made Jack weak to feel it. He wound his arms 'round Shaftoe's waist, and pulled at him, and the two of 'em fell slowly -- slow enough for Nathalie and Nettie to roll, one to the left, one right -- onto the bed, Shaftoe bearing him down, Shaftoe kissing him, never enough.

* * *

Jack was quite sure that _this_ hadn't been part of the bargain, this public exhibitionism, this lewd display of unnatural perversion. Yet he could not deny, firstly, that he _wanted_ to embrace Jack Sparrow, never mind the company; secondly, that the public to whom he was displaying this misbehaviour consisted, in total, of two lewd and lissom whores, who doubtless had seen (and, delightful thought, _participated in_ ) much worse; and thirdly, that if anyone in this room was going to be kissing Jack Sparrow, it should be Jack himself.

And anyway, there was something peculiarly arousing about the continuo of girlish giggling and sighing as Nettie and Nathalie kissed and caressed, all underlaid with the delicious groans emitted by Jack Sparrow as Jack kissed him and pressed him down into the soft straw mattress, and the occasional noise that Jack himself could not help making.

"We believe it, Mr Shaftoe, that you are not disgusted," said Nathalie rather impatiently, after a while.

Jack blinked. Some time must have passed, for Sparrow beneath him was writhing and sighing, and looking up at him (at _him_ ) all dark-eyed and demanding. Jack thought about explaining how it was only, would only ever be, Jack Sparrow who made him cast so many preconceptions to the wind; but really, what did it matter what two Port Royal prostitutes -- no matter how winsome and cooperative -- thought of him?

"Does that mean," said Jack, reaching for the nearest bottle and wetting his dry throat, "that you'll do us this great favour, now?"

It came out less respectfully than he'd intended, but the girls did not seem to mind: Nathalie smiled (she had the most glorious smile, all luminous and full of suppressed passion) and Nettie said, "Aye, Jack, we might."

"Might?" said Sparrow, outraged. He struggled to sit up, which effort Jack enjoyed immensely, not least for the way that it made his shirt fall away from his shoulder, exposing the long crimson mark of that rope-burn on his neck (just like a bite, thought Jack, though he knew it wasn't) and the healing -- very _slowly_ healing -- purple lines of Don Esteban's cruel sword-cuts.

The two girls looked at one another for a long moment (a moment in which Jack settled himself more comfortably astride Sparrow's lap) though they did not speak. Then Nathalie said, "You and your Capitaine must keep us merry, Monsieur Shaftoe; and for everything we ask of you, we'll give you something back."

Tricksy bitches! Jack drew breath to say as much, and a good deal more: but Sparrow's long finger was pressed distractingly against his mouth, and Sparrow was saying, "A favour for a favour, eh?"

"You know it, Capitaine," said Nathalie, smiling back at Sparrow in a private sort of way that Jack did not altogether like.

"And no one leaves this room unsatisfied?" said Sparrow, grinning now; and he reached out and hooked his finger into the lacing of the French girl's bodice, loosening it.

Jack, ridiculously jealous of the gesture (and not much comforted by the press and swell of Sparrow's cock against his thigh) leaned down and kissed Sparrow again, hard. Nettie gave a little cheer and clapped her hands, but Jack paid her no heed; he licked at that red mark on Sparrow's neck, and Sparrow winced and arched up against him.

"The man you seek is a Walloon," said Nathalie, though her words ended in a little gasp as Nettie kissed the hollow of her throat.

Oh, that was an interesting sight, all right, and Jack was ever so tempted to sit back and watch; but he had something even more interesting wriggling and moaning beneath him, and it was almost too much effort to pay attention to Nathalie's little morsel of information, vital though it undoubtedly was. Besides, Jack thought he knew how to get more now. He bit experimentally at Sparrow's neck and looked up expectantly; but the two girls seemed quite engrossed in an Experiment of their own.

Jack cleared his throat, making himself the focus of three gazes, variously outraged, amused and impatient.

"As favours go, ladies, I can't help thinking this is a bit _uneven,_ " he said.

"Per'aps you want some _help_ ," said Nathalie, giggling. (Jack tried not to look at her unlaced bodice.) She got to her knees and shuffled across the bed until she was behind Jack Sparrow, who, sighing, laid his head back on her shoulder in a way that'd've driven Jack wild with jealousy if it hadn't stretched out Sparrow's throat so temptingly. And while he was kissing and licking the long line of the vein, Nathalie's clever hands were working all dexterous between him and Sparrow, unfastening Sparrow's grubby linen shirt and sliding it from his shoulders so that his skin gleamed in the light of the lanthorn.

Nettie's hands, must be, slid across Jack's own chest, performing a similar office, and he shivered at the touch, and at its strange gentleness. When Jack Sparrow undressed him there was none of that hesitance, none of that soft cushioned press against his back, and for a moment Jack almost mourned its lack. But only for a moment, for Sparrow was arching up against him again, sliding his scarred chest -- Nathalie exclaimed, in French, and traced one still-red curved line with her finger -- against Jack's, eyes closed, gasping as Jack (chin knocking Nathalie's wrist) dipped his mouth to Sparrow's chest and lapped at one dark nipple.

"'Is name," said Nathalie breathlessly, "is Pieter Sp-Spitaels."

"You _what_?" managed Jack, temporarily distracted from his work.

"Spitaels," repeated Nathalie, giggling.

"Much 'bliged," gasped Sparrow, head rolling against her bared bosom. "Jack, are you 'membering this?"

Jack attempted to convey his present difficulty in remembering anything at all, even a name so thoroughly risible: but oh, 'twas difficult, with Nettie's quick hands pulling his shirt from his breeches, and slipping all friendly and familiar beneath. Did he want her? Did he want Jack? Could he have both? And that Nathalie was looking at him ever so much warmer than before, and he could feel _her_ hand too -- though 'twasn't on him at all, but on Jack Sparrow.

Oh, Nathalie was looking at him; and there was a curious sort of hunger in her gaze. Jack did not think it hunger for himself, or what he might offer her in any more _traditional_ setting. He thought of that long-ago night, watching the two of them, and how he'd been overcome with a wicked, helpless lust. Did girls feel that, too? Nathalie certainly looked as though she might be in just that state now, looking at him, looking at Sparrow: at the two of them together.

Jack raised his head from Sparrow's chest, and Sparrow moaned protestingly and clutched at him.

"What must we do, mam'selle," said Jack, eyes never leaving Nathalie as he traced the full kissed curve of Sparrow's mouth, "to have all your secrets from you?"

Nathalie tossed her head. " _All_ my secrets, monsieur?" she said. "Why, nothing, for I must keep some for myself."

"But we'll tell Jack of young Pieter, Nat, won't we?" said Nettie anxiously -- though Jack could not help but notice that her anxiety did not interfere with her work. Oh Christ, the girl was bold! Jack rolled over, to give her hand more room, and saw Sparrow recognise what she was up to. He slid his hand down Jack's belly, and Jack moaned at the doubled touch.

"Show me how you make love to your Capitaine," purred Nathalie, "and I'll tell you where to find your man."

Jack gaped at her in horror, having never thought of it in quite those terms. Make love? 'Twas what courtiers and fops did; not Jack Shaftoe, and certainly not with this _pirate_. But Sparrow pulled him down into a kiss, and Jack had no desire to fight it, nor to complain when Sparrow sucked Jack's fingers back into his mouth, beside their twined tongues, all promising, all ...

He did not recall giving his assent, afterwards, but perhaps it had been implicit.


	5. A Second Opinion, Chapter Five

  
  
Oh, it was all coming back to him now, for certain sure; these girls, and the way they were together. The way the blonde chit, Nettie, lost herself so quick, all curvy sweetness and moist open mouth; the way the other, the Frenchie, never really lost herself or her sharp trader's mind, no matter how much she might pretend it, and she could pretend as well as any. As well as Jack himself.

He knew, he knew what they'd seen upon his neck; he knew what that message was that'd passed between 'em, damn their eyes. But Shaftoe was all glorious oblivion, and that was the way that Jack wanted it to stay; and so he arched and gasped under Jack Shaftoe, touched him and kissed him and bit him in all the ways he knew best to distract him.

Shaftoe was tugging at Jack's breeches, but it was all but impossible to divest himself while Shaftoe straddled him that way; Jack released Shaftoe's upper lip, whose delicious swollen Cupid's bow he'd sucked into his mouth, and said, breathlessly, "Up, Jack, up!"; Shaftoe rose to his knees, and Jack wriggled out of his breeches between the arch of Shaftoe's thighs, and Nettie (nothing if not professional) reached down and pulled off his boots, tugged off his clothes, dropping them on the floor.

Shaftoe and Nettie, in unison, heaved two sighs, and Jack grinned; he'd no objection to being the only one bare, not when his companions greeted the situation with such obvious delight.

"Come, Mr Shaftoe," came Nathalie's voice from behind him, where she writhed against Jack's back, and ran her long fingers up the tender skin of the insides of his thighs, "Will you not join your friend?"

Shaftoe paused for a moment and then scrambled to his feet, fumbling with his buttons; Nathalie, cunning, took the moment to run a fingertip over the mark on Jack's neck. He tipped his head back onto her shoulder, and bit at her earlobe, all bitter with cheap perfume; dug his sharp canines into the soft flesh, warning her. She laughed, low, and that was enough to tell him that their 'conversation' was all understood; this confirmed, he could refocus his attention where it truly wanted to be. Which was entirely on Jack Shaftoe, standing there now beside the bed, tall and flushed and strong and so monstrously handsome that Jack could have no qualms, none, 'bout what it was that he would allow (nay, _abet_ ) Shaftoe to do to him, here and now and in front of these two. "Ah, God, Jack," he muttered, and shuffled to the edge of the sagging bed, abandoning Nathalie's arms so's he could wrap his own around Jack Shaftoe's waist, slide his tongue over the taut flesh of Shaftoe's belly. Rubbed his cheek up the hard length of Shaftoe's yard, and Shaftoe's fingers dug into his shoulders.

Jack turned his head to the side, licked his lips; said, "Dear ladies, dear, dear ladies... seems to me that my Jack here was right when he accused you of a somewhat uneven approach to this favour."

Nettie, her cheeks flaring red and her lip all bitten, tucked a stray curl behind her ear and tugged at Nathalie's sleeve, sliding up close alongside the other girl. "Tell him more, Nat, tell him," she whispered urgently.

"Pieter was... a friend of Cornelisz vandenVoort," said Nathalie distractedly, though she did not take her eyes off Jack's hand, wandering possessively across Shaftoe's muscled thigh.

"That's barely of interest, and surely of no utility," said Jack, and dropped his hand. Jack Shaftoe growled, and Jack laughed, and licked at Shaftoe's navel. He glanced upward, and winked at Shaftoe, reassuring him that this was not merely a game or a trade, and that they would all get what they wanted, one way or another.

"They were rivals," said Nathalie, narrowing her eyes. This was not much more helpful than her last proffered datum, and Jack seemed to recall that this girl was a wicked negotiator. They stared at one another for a moment, in impasse; and then Nettie piped up, all big-eyed innocence, with, "Come on, Captain; you wouldn't want Nathalie to say _too much_ , now would you? Thought you liked a girl with a bit of _discretion_?"

Jack's gut twisted, and he swallowed. Bloody women, and he should've known that these were the worst sort; but Jack Shaftoe was canting his hips, pressing all urgent against the side of Jack's neck, and oh God, who was he to argue the point, now? So all he said was, "By the end of tonight, you'll've told me where to find this fellow -- say that's so, and you've my word that we'll not deny you anything you might wish to... to _trade_ for."

"Accord," said Nettie, rather squeakily, and Nathalie nodded, smiled.

Jack did not trust them, though, and was all afeard of this tightrope of lies and omissions that he was balanced upon; had too much to lose, far too much, and was being reminded of it, every moment, with the achy pain in his swollen cock, and the thumping lively pulse of Jack Shaftoe's vein, there in his groin where Jack's thumb pressed. He stared hard at both women, all twisted sideways as his tongue slid along Shaftoe's length, and Shaftoe groaned, and then said, with a funny tone to his voice, "Go on then, girls; give 'im something to look at, why don't you?"

Jack did not, at that point, particularly want to be looking at anything aside from Jack Shaftoe's blue gaze, or open mouth, or the heave of his chest as he drew deep breaths, or, best of all, the glorious roseate skin of Shaftoe's yard; did not want it, at least, until he _was_ , and then he rather remembered what it was about girls that made them such a very delightful (though potentially treacherous) alternative.

* * *

Oh, the hussies! They were posing and posturing like the lewdest tableau-vivant Jack'd ever spied on through the knot-hole at the Skinn'd Hare on Drury Lane. All well and good and most affecting, but Jack didn't care for the way that Sparrow's eyes returned to them again and again, never mind what Sparrow's mouth was doing to Jack's yard; never mind the man's obvious, and flattering, enthusiasm for Jack's own person. And come to think of it, had he been so very _enthusiastic_ last night in their cabin, without the Visual Aid of Nettie's pink and promising curves, and the gentler swell of Nathalie's bosom as, bodice quite undone now, she held the blonde girl against herself -- a nice set of contrasts, Jack admitted privately -- and fluttered her lashes at Sparrow?

He had not: and Jack, no matter that he was very much the _recipient_ of Sparrow's enthusiasm, wished that Jack Sparrow had eyes only for him.

What did it make Jack, eh, that he cared less for the soft, flushed charms of a pretty blonde whore (not that he'd say no, in other circumstances: she was a sweet thing, and he had fond memories of that night they'd spent together, back before ... before Sparrow; it seemed an age ago) than for the wicked mouth and black eyes of the pirate who was even now -- his eyes still on Nathalie, and her slow, theatrickal exposure of Nettie's skin -- applying his mouth, with devastating effect, to Jack's prick?

Jack groaned loudly, more to recapture Sparrow's attention than anything, and Jack Sparrow paused, and looked up at him. O there was everything there, still an' always, in his dark gaze: affection and wickedness and lust, and a spark of challenge that made Jack want to claim him, want to show these girls that Jack Sparrow was his. He pushed Sparrow back down on the bed and straddled him again, gasping as their cocks rubbed together, getting his hand on Sparrow's yard and his mouth on Sparrow's nipple. Nettie gasped too -- perhaps at something Nathalie'd done to her, Jack was too busy to look -- and Sparrow, his gaze still fixed on Jack's, made a curious keening noise.

"Christ, Jack, I have to have you," muttered Jack Shaftoe thickly, working his knee between Sparrow's thighs.

"Oh yes," said Jack Sparrow, all low and growly. He flicked a glance at the two girls, as though asking their permission.

"I must say, Mr Shaftoe," remarked Nettie, rather breathlessly, "you've quite changed your tune, since we first met. What's -- ooh, Nat, you wicked girl -- what's that all about, eh?"

Jack saw an opportunity for a flattering, yet self-evidently truthful, compliment: but Sparrow's hand on his yard, thumb pressing just beneath the head, and Sparrow's own prick thrusting into his circling hand, robbed him of coherent speech. "Unh," he said.

"Your Capitaine is a most _persuasive_ man," said Nathalie with a brazen wink, and ran her finger possessively along the swell of Sparrow's mouth.

Jack growled at her, and gathered every straying strand of thought that prickled through his body, and said hotly, "He din't persuade _me_ : 'twas quite the other way."

Nettie giggled, and Nathalie frowned: but Jack Sparrow looked him straight in the eye, and said to Jack as though they were entirely alone, "I didn't need much persuading, either, Jack: I welcomed everything you offered me."

Jack did not know how to take such an assertion, though he knew it merited some return. He put his hand haltingly to Sparrow's face (Sparrow pushed into the caress like a cat, or a girl) and opened his mouth: but no words were forthcoming, and so he simply leaned down and kissed Sparrow, long and sweet, and hardly heard the squeaking and giggling of the two girls next to them on the bed.

Jack Sparrow's jaw opened wide and lewd, as if he would devour Jack, and his clever tongue, though it might've started sweet as Jack's own intention, had soon turned the kiss to something far more savage, far more heated. He bit and licked at Jack, in the way that (Jack knew, now) he did when he wanted more, oh, more; and though it was the strangest thing to be doing in front of an audience, they were admittedly an appreciative one (and what's more, a distracted). Jack waited till he could see, from the corner of his eye, that the two girls were entirely engrossed in one another before he shifted between Sparrow's knees, and slipped two fingers into the hot wet space of their kiss. He pulled back, with one last swipe of tongue across Sparrow's, still reaching all unsatisfied for more of Jack's mouth; knelt, and began to lavish kisses over the pirate's bony kneecap, down the hard curve of his thigh, as he slipped a hand down, down between Jack Sparrow's bent legs.

Sparrow arched and growled at Jack's touch, and Jack was mortified to feel a flush in his face as the sound regained Nettie's attention, and he looked up to find her gaze fixed upon him -- worse, fixed upon his hand, upon the flex of tendons in his wrist as he pushed and searched. Oh, a fine pass he'd come to, to let himself be watched as he committed these unnatural acts! To be here with these two obliging girls and yet not have a hand to spare for 'em; to even find it in himself to wish the pair of 'em elsewhere, despite the pale, pink-nailed hand that crept across his leg and slid along the length of his cock.

It was not the callused palm that he wanted to feel... but he could not say so, oh not for the world, not when Jack Sparrow was staring at Nettie that way. It came to him, with a sense of horrid possibility, that Sparrow was permitting this only because the girls had demanded it in terms of trade; that the pirate'd rather be fucking than fucked, for hadn't he suggested that, 'fore now, to Jack? And hadn't Jack just laughed it off, and borne him down, and done as he pleased?

But there, now; Nathalie was passing something 'cross to Nettie, who was slathering some oil on Jack's person, and gripping harder, with a highly professional squeeze of fingers and twist of wrist; Jack's eyes rolled back, involuntarily, and when he regained both sight and focus, he was treated to the rather unpleasant vision of Nathalie's dark head bent over Sparrow's, whispering or kissing or something -- Jack did not know, for sure, but he did know that their two faces were far too close for his liking.

"There you go, my love... don't scowl so, eh... go on, Jack, go on, do as he wants," Nettie murmured breathily in his ear, rubbing herself all shameless against Jack's arm. She was all flush and heat, and her spare hand was sliding Nathalie's skirts up a long, long leg, reaching beneath; but Nathalie's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, and would not let her continue her explorations, and the two girls rolled down on the bed, all arms and giggling, half dressed and half not.

"Plus tard, ma p'tite amour, plus tard," whispered Nathalie. "Voyons... voyons, leurs visages..."

Jack's scrappy French was enough, coupled with their pink-cheeked stares, to know what it was they were watching, and he had to admit that it surely was something worth paying attention to, Jack Sparrow's face, all contorted black-eyed beauty as Jack pressed slowly inside him; Jack himself could not repress a sobbing groan, and then another as Sparrow's ankles crossed behind Jack's back and wrenched him forward, deeper, _in_.

Nathalie leant close to Jack, on his other side, and he was hard put not to push her away, for he wanted nothing, no _nothing_ , to come between himself and Jack Sparrow when they were here, like this, two and one and one and two all mixed and joined. But she whispered in his ear: "Down on the Western Quay, behind the chandlery; you'll find him there, and he has what you want."

"Good," gasped Jack, and was oh-so-close to adding, "now be a love and get out," before he realised that Jack Sparrow's gaze had slid away from his own, slid away, and was fixed on Nathalie's mouth; and though it hurt, he could not be the one to deprive Sparrow of any pleasure. Could not bring himself to play the jealous lover, it was surely too ridiculous an idea.

So instead he said, "Now kiss her;" and closed his eyes as the two girls made a twining, sweet-skinned guard of honour over Jack Sparrow's head, and Jack honoured him too, in the odd and only way he knew how.


	6. A Second Opinion, Chapter Six

  
  
Jack Sparrow came awake in an instant, knowing that something was amiss. He quelled the urge to leap up out of ... of this bed, that wasn't his own, though he could feel Shaftoe's bony knees against him, and hear the ruffle of his breath. Not so very amiss, then, if Jack Shaftoe were with him and the two of them lay still and comfortable together. But Jack cast about, trying to determine the source of his looming unease. He could smell cheap perfume, and --

Oh. Oh Christ, those infernal bitches.

Jack cracked open an eyelid and peered around, tilting his head slowly as though he still slept. He and Shaftoe were alone in the wide, soft bed: Nettie and Nathalie had taken themselves elsewhere, it seemed, after ... well, _after_. Jack squirmed a little, and smirked, at the thought of what they'd done, he and Shaftoe, for the delectation and delight of their feminine audience. His arse ached pleasurably with Shaftoe's enthusiasm -- who'd've thought he'd be so _forceful_ , in company? -- and he settled back to compile and review the memories of the previous night: Shaftoe giving it to him deep and hard, intent on Jack even while the two girls had been kissing and tonguing and fondling right in front of Jack's face. Oh, it'd been a pretty sight all right, and Jack licked his lips, remembering how their hands had brushed against him, how Nathalie'd leaned down (her black hair brushing against -- no, not thinking about that) to press her mouth against his healing wounds, and her hand ...

But now, oh now, it was just the two of them again, and Jack found himself longing for the sight of Shaftoe's face: more, for the sight of that face transfigured by ecstasy as Shaftoe hung above him. He stretched experimentally, hoping that Shaftoe'd wake and take advantage of the situation. His cock was stirring, and that niggling stinging ache was making itself known again: but never mind that, for Jack Shaftoe was the remedy to all of Jack's ills.

"Jack?" came Shaftoe's voice, low and tentative: aye, he'd be wondering, too, if they still had company.

"Mmm," said Jack, opening his eyes and rolling over so that he was half on top of Shaftoe, who put his arms round Jack, smiling sleepily up at him with a look of such simple pleasure that Jack felt a pang in his heart. He could not speak for a moment, but he looked back at Jack Shaftoe and tried, for once, not to hide.

Shaftoe's forehead wrinkled, and he opened his mouth to say something, or perhaps in hope of a kiss: but then there were quick, light footsteps on the stairs, and a rapping on the door.

"Come --" called Jack, propping himself up and dragging the sheet over them both, as Nathalie (all washed and dressed and proper, the miss) opened the door. "In," finished Jack, bootlessly.

"You 'ave slept well, messieurs?" enquired their visitor, with a wink.

"Like a babe," said Jack, eyeing her darkly. "Was there something you were wanting, love?" Beneath him, Shaftoe writhed a little, most distractingly. Jack spread his fingers over the curve of Shaftoe's shoulder, trying to convey that, actually, he'd really rather the wench let them be.

"But yes, Capitaine," said Nathalie, with that white shallow smile of hers. "A florin, if you please."

"What?" said Jack Shaftoe, pushing himself up to scowl at her. "Don't you remember, mam'selle? 'Twas _I_ did all the labouring last night!"

Jack considered disputing this, on the basis that he'd hardly just _lain_ there: but he concluded that a satisfied (and satiated) smirk would irritate Nathalie more than any argument. He curled himself more closely around Jack Shaftoe, beaming at the girl.

Nathalie narrowed her eyes at him, and seemed about to speak: Jack stiffened. But then in came Nettie, rather more dishabille, and revoltingly bright-eyed.

"No, darling, not for _that_!" she cried. "If the night you stay, the room you pay. Though I'm sure we'd --"

Nathalie stretched out a shapely bare foot and kicked her friend's ankle, not ungently; Nettie shut up.

"As she says, messieurs. The room only, eh? For all our _other_ debts are balanced, are they not?"

Jack was nearly certain that she was staring at his neck again: he sat up a little straighter, and tossed his head so that his hair fell forward.

"And there was me, thinkin' you were pleased to see me," grumbled Shaftoe, making a sad face at Nettie.

"Course we're pleased to see you, Jack-my-love!" (Jack ground his teeth.) "You just drop in whenever you're in port, eh? You and your handsome Captain there -- ooh, I'm terribly sorry, Captain Sparrow, for not knowing you first off, yesterday!"

Jack, mollified, smiled at her.

"Can't say I blame you at all, Mr Shaftoe," Nettie went on, settling herself on the foot of the bed and patting Shaftoe's sheeted foot familiarly. "'E's a fine figure of a man, is Captain Sparrow. Don't you think so, Nat?"

Nathalie smiled tolerantly, and gave a little shrug. Bitch.

"But I never would've thought it, not after you was here last time," said Nettie. "Making such a fuss about my boys, and them just sitting there quietly, not bothering you none!"

This was news, and Jack saw potential for entertainment in it: Shaftoe'd been all prim and narrow-minded before, had he? And only hours off the _Black Pearl_ and oooh, that kiss up against the door. He turned to Shaftoe, raising an eyebrow, preparing a devastating observation on Shaftoe's refined (some might say 'picky': Jack preferred to think of it as discerning) taste.

But Jack Shaftoe's eyes were lowered, and he was not smiling any more. "I," he began; and swallowed, and went on, "I've got some news for you, Nettie, and it ain't good."

Jack sat back, mystified. Nettie was looking anxious now, and Nathalie's smile was gone.

"What is it, Jack?" begged Nettie, flicking a gaze at Shaftoe's still-bandaged hand. "Are they -- what is it?"

"Cooper's dead, love," said Jack Shaftoe, his face all twisted with sorrow. "Cooper's dead, and poor old Burton's gone and left us."

Jack did not know where to look. He was selfishly glad of the wailing noise that Nettie was making, because it covered the sound that he choked back. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, his back turned on Nathalie and Nettie and on Jack, and reached for his breeches, trying not to listen as Jack Shaftoe told the tale; trying not to say, "He died in my place."

* * *

Poor Nettie was sobbing like a child, and Jack Shaftoe could not help but hold out his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. Who'd have thought a whore would be so attached to her customer, be he never so handsome and sweet-natured? Jack swallowed a couple of sobs himself -- her grief was contagious, and he'd never had any idea what to do with a weeping woman -- and tried not to look at Sparrow's back, all tense and rigid. Sparrow turning from Jack. Was it temper, or grief, or guilt? Not for the first time Jack wished he could read Jack Sparrow's thoughts. Endlessly fascinating, all right, and mercurial and sharp and witty: but Jack did not know what to do, or to say, when he was in this temper. Nettie was easier.

At least she'd stopped teasing him about his sudden change of heart. Sudden it'd been, all right. It couldn't be more than a month since he'd been here the last time, straight off the _Black Pearl_ (even now, having been granted so very much more, his blood stirred at the memory of that first helpless kiss, of pinning Jack Sparrow up against the cabin door) and all set on fleeing the Caribbean, and the pirate life, and most especially Captain Jack Sparrow. Only a month! It seemed like yesterday that he'd woken here, in this bed, with Burton and poor bloody Cooper banging on the door, and yet it seemed another lifetime. So much had happened since then. His maimed hand, trapped against Nettie's soft breast, throbbed.

"John Burton's gone adventuring," he told her, patting her hair clumsily. "Gone off with a fellow called Enoch Root, he has: Enoch'll take care of him."

"But Cooper!" sobbed Nettie. Jack looked up at Nathalie, hoping to pass his armful of sobbing female to her: Sparrow was pulling on his clothes, and Jack did not care to be abandoned to these two.

Nathalie did not seem much affected by the news of Cooper's demise, though there was a tightness about her mouth as she watched Jack and Nettie. "It is a dangerous life," she offered, gesturing. "A short life. Anything can take these men, ma chere; battle, or sickness, or --"

"Here's your florin, mam'selle," said Sparrow, flipping a tarnished coin in Nathalie's direction. He was dressed now, and Jack, the only bare person in the room, looked in vain for a spark of warmth in his gaze. Christ, was Sparrow jealous of the way he was cuddling poor Nettie? He put her from him, as gently as he could, and reached to the floor for his shirt.

"My thanks, Capitaine," said Nathalie, catching the coin and tucking it into the front of her dress. "Per'aps you will be back soon, eh?"

"Oooh, I doubt it," said Sparrow coolly. "Which is not to say, dear ladies, that we're not most grateful for your information... and, of course, for your _discretion_."

Jack, struggling into his tatty breeches, raised an eyebrow at this, for the girls had not been notably discreet last night. On the other hand, 'twas best if they didn't noise it about that the notorious Captain Sparrow was in town: Sparrow'd seemed keen to avoid the notice of the authorities, and Jack lived by that same principle.

"We'll be off, then," he announced, as much to break the staring-match between Jack Sparrow and Nathalie -- Christ, she could pass for Sparrow, on a dark night in breeches and a shirt -- as to assert some measure of independence. "Western Quay, did you say, darling?"

Nathalie's cool gaze rested on him for a moment before she nodded. "Oui, Mr Shaftoe. His name is Pieter Spitaels." She did not smile at it now. "You will find him by the chandlery."

"Much obliged," said Jack. He bent and kissed Nettie's salty cheek, never mind if Sparrow din't like it. Sparrow said nothing, but stood at the door, waiting for Jack, and he did not bid either girl farewell.

 

"Jack, is ..." began Jack Shaftoe: and then fell silent, for he did not know which question to ask.

But Jack Sparrow's mood was inexplicably lighter, now that they were out in the fresh morning air -- or as fresh as the air ever was, in Port Royal: all scented with cooking-fires and chamber-pots and rotting fruit -- and heading, side by side, for the quay.

"All's well, Jack," he said cheerily. "In fact, all is positively _delightful_ , eh?"

"We didn't have to stay," said Jack mutinously, "if you didn't want it."

Sparrow shot him a sharp look. He gestured expansively, and said, "Oooh, 'twas _frightful_ , Jack: such torments you performed on me, and I all helpless at your hands." His gold teeth flashed in the sunlight. So much for being inconspicuous.

"That's all right, then," said Jack, immeasurably relieved. "An' we got what we wanted, eh?"

"Oh, we did," said Sparrow, "we very much did."

"Are we meeting up with the others first?" Jack wanted to know. "Stone and Martingale? Bound to be in a gutter hereabouts, 'less they got lucky."

"Not unless you want our man to get wind of our _int'rest_ in him, and run for it," said Sparrow. "No: we'll go there directly."

"Then shouldn't we be heading that way?" said Jack, waving a hand towards the western end of the harbour.

Sparrow halted and scowled at Jack, and then up at the sun. "You have a point," he admitted grudgingly, and turned in the direction Jack'd suggested.

Jack, bemused, hurried to keep up. Something was bothering Jack Sparrow, and he wanted to know what it was; would, under other circumstances, have demanded an explanation. But perhaps this was not the time or the place. He could see the chandler's store already, bedecked with cordage and cooperage, the front of it propping up a rather battered assemblage of spars. Sparrow halted before it and sniffed the air like a hound, then turned and plunged down the filthy alleyway at the side of the building. Jack sniffed too, but could smell nothing save tar and hemp: he went after Sparrow, who'd slowed as he negotiated the narrow passage. A tall tree almost blocked the path, its shade concealing what lay before them.

"I am honoured," said a heavily-accented, long-vowelled voice out of the darkness. "Captain Jack Sparrow, is it not? And Jack Shaftoe, the renowned alchemist from London Town. It is a pleasure, sirs, to make your acquaintance."


	7. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Seven

  


A thin, lanky shape emerged from beneath the tree, though the alley was dim enough that Jack still squinted to see the details of the man, even as his mind worked furiously to try to establish who this might be that not only recognised his good self, but also Jack Shaftoe; and moreover, believed Shaftoe to be an Alchemist (a title that he’d earned more by lies and circumstance than any true skills, no matter what the two of ‘em might’ve pretended in the past). But furious work was not enough to bring the right answer to his mind, not at the moment. For reasons whose exact nature Jack didn’t care to dwell upon, he wasn’t terribly sharp just now, and try as he might he couldn’t entirely place the fellow. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to recall a young man with such _remarkably_ oleaginous hair, almost no eyebrows, and a faintly singed look to his cratered face; and yet, damnation, he simply wasn’t coming to mind.

Jack was still trying to decide whether to pretend that he did know him anyway, or to affect the greatest disdain and an utter lack of recognition, when Shaftoe muttered helpfully, “That’s the cove as was hiding in old vandenVoort’s shrubbery back when we was here last time, Jack, ain’t it? Nearly set him afire, we did; looks like we got some of him, anyway, eh?”

“Mmm,” said Jack noncommittally (inwardly blessing Jack Shaftoe’s powers of recall) and then to the stranger, “D’ye make a daily habit of lurking about in the greenery, sir? For I and my colleague here seem to be making an unwitting habit of flushing you out of it.”

“Concealment can result in learning, from time to time,” he was advised. “And learning’s the goal of any man of enquiring mind.”

“Enquiring mind, eh? Well, me an’ all,” said Shaftoe, “And right now I’m going to enquire whether you’re one Pieter Spitaels, who’s said to reside hereabouts.”

The fellow’s eyes narrowed and his hand drifted gently to his side, where Jack diagnosed a knife tucked away in dirty folds of cloak; he put his hand to his own hilt in response, but said, “No need for alarm, mate; we’re merely looking to present a business proposition.”

“Those who’ve entered into business with you lately, gentlemen, don’t seem to’ve come through the experience entirely unscathed.”

“None of that was our doing,” said Shaftoe. “So are you Spitaels, or not?”

The man paused for a moment too long, and Jack smiled in satisfaction; said, “I’m going to deduce from your reluctance to answer that you _are_ that gentleman.”

Spitaels was not much of a dissembler; the fleeting purse of his lips as Jack said this made it perfectly clear that it was an accurate supposition.

“So,” said Jack, “might we p’rhaps take a moment of your time?”

The man gave them both a long look (during which Jack decided he was younger than his well-worn physiognomy might lead the casual observer to suppose) and then nodded curtly. He turned about, and beckoned them to follow him up the alley.

A few steps on, the smell of naphtha made itself known, and Jack turned to Shaftoe, to find him already grinning and raising his eyebrows in return. The contrast between Shaftoe’s strong dark brows and poor Spitaels’, naught but stubbled remnants, was an amusingly cruel one.

Spitaels led them to a low, dark doorway, and through into a musty, rush-floored room. Steps in the corner led down into cellary blackness, and the smell, once inside—Spitaels closed the door behind them, as soon as they were through—was nauseating, instantly inductive of a woozy pain behind Jack’s stinging eyeballs. He hadn’t slept too sound, not with all the revelry of the Mermaid’s patrons carrying on till all hours, and wasn’t feeling particularly fabulous even prior to the sledgehammer effect of this loathsome effluvium.

He looked around, ostensibly for some place to sit, but that didn’t seem much of a possibility. Only one rickety chair stood beside the table, whose surface was invisible beneath a filthy accumulation of bottles, vials, books, crucibles, candles, a half-shattered dog’s skull (pieces of which lay beside it, alongside a small hammer), pestles and mortars, and other paraphernalia. The room was lined with shelves, the corners piled high with more and worse of this alchemical accretion.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment, in an effort to persuade his brain to ignore the varied stenches of this place and get on with the business at hand. “Right,” he said. “Well, I don’t need to ask where Meinheer vandenVoort’s stock of naphtha ended up, do I? Problem is, Mr Spitaels, that it wasn’t really his. He hadn’t paid us for’t, you see. So I’m afraid that we’ll need it back. And since you surely didn’t part with a shilling to become its owner, that shouldn’t be represent any loss to you, now, should it?”

“You expect me to believe that you delivered your goods to vandenVoort without payment? Please, Captain; I’m not so ignorant of your type of man to believe that.”

Shaftoe looked indignant at this slur on Jack’s character, but Jack never objected to an opportunity to play the scoundrel; or, in this case, the blatant liar. He abandoned his (fictitious) claim of vandenVoort’s non-payment in favour of being thought a mendacious villain, a little whirly paradox which briefly delighted him.

“Well, look on the bright side,” he said, twisting the ends of his moustache; “We don’t want _all_ of it. Two hogsheads should suffice.”

“Twenty guineas, and they’re yours,” said Spitaels, his chin defiantly raised.

“I think not,” said Jack, and gave the alchemist a patronising smile. (What sort of self-respecting pirate would pay for goods that he could, with perfect ease, take for his own? Besides which, most any man whom Jack considered right-minded would’ve backed his premise that stealing from a thief really couldn’t be considered stealing at all. Double negatives, and all that).

“Be sensible, sir,” he advised, not unkindly. “Not only are you alone with myself and my rather terrifyingly martial friend here, but we have an entire pirate company at our disposal. Trust me, these goods are ours; all that remains to be seen is whether or not you, personally, are _damaged_ during their transfer into our keeping.”

Shaftoe had sidled round behind the man during this little speech, and stood there saying nothing, doing nothing; silent and still, and yet holding himself in some way that was quite perfectly threat’ning. Jack enjoyed the little shiver that ran down him at the sight; ooh, Jack Shaftoe was good at that. Spitaels didn’t seem to be enjoying it so very much, though. His head swung from one to the other of ‘em, and even in the gloom Jack could see a shine of perspiration appearing on his forehead.

Still, he had some bottle; for he didn’t cave, but said, “In that case, I’m sure we can come to some… non-financial arrangement, Captain Sparrow. For example, we could trade some of the _ingredient_ for the _receipt_. The true receipt, that is; for I know you cheated Cornelisz vandenVoort. He could not recreate your Greek Fire at all. I watched him try, and in fact, I have your supposed method right here”—he rummaged in the detritus on the table, and surfaced brandishing a tattered piece of paper, on which Jack recognised his own handwriting—“yet I have had no more success.”

“It works perfectly well,” said Jack Shaftoe, playing Professional with wonderful mock indignation, “it’s a question of _accuracy_ , of following instruction to the very letter. Not every man-jack can achieve it you know, there’s an _art_ to it.”

“I know that _you_ can formulate it,” said Pieter Spitaels, pointing a sharp (though slightly shaky) finger in Shaftoe’s direction; and then an idea visibly occurred to him, sparking a straightness in his spine, and he said, “Here, then—in place of payment, take both the goods and _me_ with you, and let me observe the production of the Fire. Let me be your, your student, your apprentice in this matter, Mr Shaftoe.”

Jack stared at him in bemusement. The man was obviously deranged. What on earth would make him think that Jack would agree to such a thing, when the bloody naphtha was simply there for the taking? He shook his head and rolled his eyes and was about to tell the man so, but Spitaels was still gabbling. “And furthermore, I could be of great assistance to you, gentlemen, great assistance; for I’m not merely a student of alchemy, but also of medicine, and of chirurgery, and would even be willing to serve as barber-surgeon on your vessel, until… until I’ve learned what I need to know.”

“What in Christ’s name gives you the idea that—” Jack began, and then a bayonet of paranoia jabbed him in the gut. His hand, unbidden, went up to his neck as it suddenly occurred to him that, if those damned whores had noted it—why, then, might this lunatick, with all his talk of medication and chirurgeons, not be making some abstruse reference to Jack’s Condition, and to his need for assistance?

And then, on the other hand… perhaps he _might_ know of something that would alleviate the situation…

“Gives me what idea, Captain?” prompted Spitaels nervously, into the silence left by Jack’s abruptly hanging sentence.

“Why, the idea that we wouldn’t be pleased to have your company,” said Jack, with a polite incline of his head, and he studiously avoided Jack Shaftoe’s puzzled frown.

*

A mystery, Jack Sparrow was; but Jack held his questions, held his tongue, till they’d left Pieter Spitaels’ company, with an injunction to be ready next morning, being the earliest that the alchemist claimed he could prepare himself and his belongings for a sea voyage. Jack’d snorted, and begun to advise the man that he was inexplicably lucky to be coming at all, and they’d be leaving in accordance with the _Pearl_ ’s own schedule, thank you all the same. But Sparrow had put a hand to his arm, bony fingers digging sharp, and muttered, “Peace, Jack;” had told the man that he had until the morrow, but they would sail on the early tide. God alone knew why.

But since it gave them an entire day—oh, and an entire _night_ —here at leisure, together, Jack couldn’t find it in him to query it too closely.

“So,” he said, as they emerged back on to the waterfront, and he put a companionable hand on Sparrow’s shoulder, “Whatever shall we do with ourselves till morn, Captain Sparrow?” He caught Sparrow’s eye, and gave him a grin, and fully expected a merry leer in return; got a smile, but there was a tightness to it, and none of the usual spark of mischief.

“Lots to do,” said Sparrow vaguely. “Got to find Stone and Martingale, for a start.”

Jack felt more than a little rebuffed. But perhaps Sparrow was merely suffering from the after-effects of breathing in that horrid vapour, and the thought of sailing with it aboard once more… besides, Jack Shaftoe was not some flighty oversensitive miss, needing to be coddled and adored every moment of the day, was he? So he merely said, “Aye,” and scanned the wharf, and the beach; and in a few minutes had spied Stone, sprawled and snoring on the sand, and there was Martingale down by the water’s edge, splashing his face clean of the night’s residuum.

Jack Sparrow stood over his somnolent crewman, and kicked him ungently awake as Martingale scrambled up the beach.

“Found out anything useful, gents?” said Sparrow, all innocent and curious.

“Um, yes, Jack,” said Martingale, running his fingers through his hair in lieu of a combing, but still looking distinctly the worse for wear. (Jack fought down a surge of curious concern as to what might befall a pretty lad like Jamie Martingale, drunk on a Port Royal beach all night. None of his business, was it.) “There’s some foreign chap, another alchemist, who might’ve taken it.”

“Really?” said Sparrow, with a thick sarcasm that seemed to go right over the sore heads of his men. Martingale nodded, all solemn.

“We knew that yesterday, you great berk,” said Jack, before Sparrow could say something even more cutting. “And anyway, we’ve found him. All sorted, it is. So,” (this to Stone, who was sitting up, bleary eyed and groaning) “you might as well go back to sleep.”

Stone slumped gratefully back to the sand, but Sparrow kicked him again. “No, you mightn’t; I need you to go back to Bootstrap, and tell him to have the _Pearl_ ready by the western point tomorrow morning, and we’ll meet him there. And then bring the cutter back, and I shall see you here an hour before the morning tide. An hour _before_ , savvy, you hopeless dunderheads?”

“Aye, Jack,” said Martingale, chastened, and Sparrow nodded, and headed up the beach. Jack made to follow, but Martingale grabbed his arm.

“Is something amiss? With the Captain? With, with you?” said Martingale, his head to one side. “Only, he seems a bit…”

“Nothing,” said Jack reassuringly. “He’s fine, mate, I’m fine, everything’s hunky-dory. Just do as he says, eh?” He clapped Martingale on the shoulder, and followed after Sparrow. Curious as to what actual quality, and quantity, of lies he might just’ve told.


	8. A Second Opinion, Chapter Eight

  
_posting slightly early as I'll be away the next two days..._  
  
Had anyone suggested to Jack Sparrow that he'd spend a day in Port Royal sneaking around alleyways and lying low in a succession of gloomy and sordid back-street taverns, he'd have mocked them mercilessly. "Enough warrants with my name on 'em to make a _lovely_ bonfire, and not a single one of 'em served," he'd've said: or, perhaps, "Are you implying that Captain Jack Sparrow's not capable of making himself inconspicuous?"

And if that phantom interlocutor had gone on to speculate on the possibility of Jack not relishing a day, a whole long empty day, in the company of _Jack Shaftoe_ , he'd have laughed long and loud, and then retorted ... retorted ... well, made some memorably wounding remark.

But here, in this latest bolt-hole (he had not bothered to note its name: hoped never to enter its grimy interior more), Jack slumped back on the settle, only vaguely cognisant of Shaftoe's warm presence at his side, and wished the day had vanished into night.

No, not night: not night, with all its unasked questions and sidelong looks and inexplicable melancholies. Bring him tomorrow morning, fresh and new and full of departures (and promising a return to his darling ship, away from the ghastly unmoving land) and he'd be happy.

Shaftoe was looking at him now, with that faint frown that he'd sported more often of late. Jack supposed that he was not, quite, himself today: but how dull, how tedious to be predictable, to be what others expected.

"Sh'll we have another, Jack?" Shaftoe enquired, upending the bottle before them and shaking the last dregs into Jack's cup.

Jack gave this offer some consideration. "What time is it?" he said, blinking at the narrow sliver of sky 'twixt roof and half-wall.

Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "How should I know?" he demanded. "Do I look like some wealthy gent with a pocket-watch, eh? Past noon, and not yet dusk. Afternoon: yes, let's say three o' the clock. What does it _matter_ what time it is?"

Jack scarcely heard him. He was looking at Jack Shaftoe, all fervently exasperated, and oh, wanting him: wanting him close and bare and deliciously enthusiastickal, hands on Jack, mouth on Jack ...

Bloody, fucking hell. It shouldn't _hurt,_ to want Jack Shaftoe. It had never hurt before. Oh, a pleasurable swelling ache, a sharp desire to consummate, again and (hopefully) again, his blazing lust: all that was natural, normal and devoutly to be wished. Jack wouldn't wish the way he felt now on anyone. Well, perhaps de Braxas. But he was bloodily dead.

"Jack?" said Shaftoe, and Jack Sparrow could feel himself scowling most ferociously. Piratically, even. He made a conscious effort (the most recent of many) to calm himself.

"Let's go somewhere else," he said. "Nothing to keep us here, is there?"

Shaftoe looked as though he were about to argue the point: but he kept mercifully quiet, and paid for their drinks, and followed Jack out into the street.

It was considerably later than three o'clock, not that Jack really had much time for timekeeping in the general course of things. The sun was low in the sky, its rays angling into his eyes (must get another hat) like some fiendish torture devised by the cosmos to multiply his woes. Christ, it was hot, even long past noon, and the air oozed and roiled with stench and dust. Jack could've sworn he could smell that naphtha still, though this street -- more of a pig-pen, really -- did not seem to be anywhere near the quay.

"I'm tired," said Jack Shaftoe, with transparent dishonesty. "Let's find a room. We can sleep 'til it's cooler, eh?"

Jack bit back a remark to the effect that he did not require coddling. Poor bloody Shaftoe: wasn't his fault that Jack wasn't in the mood to laze about in the sun. "Let's have another drink, eh?" he countered. "Have we wandered down there, yet?" -- waving haphazardly in the direction of the harbour.

Shaftoe shook his head. "Jack, I reckon --"

"Leave it, Mr Shaftoe," snapped Jack.

They glared at one another for a moment, there in the stinking street with pigshit and broken glass (the tavern they'd just departed being popular amongst the untidier inhabitants of Port Royal) all around them. Shaftoe was braced for something, Jack saw: braced to turn on his heel and leave, or perhaps to hit Jack. In which case Jack'd have to hit him back. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

"C'mon, mate," he said, his tone as close to apology (a sentiment of which Jack preferred to steer well clear) as he could get it. "Let's get out of the sun, eh?"

Port Royal was noted for the quantity (though not the quality) of its hostelries. On every street corner squatted a slowly-collapsing hovel, ministering to the rather more rapid collapse of its customers. They were spoilt for choice: but Jack did not care to drink in a place where he couldn't keep an eye on the exits; or in one where the voices hushed as he and Shaftoe approached the door; or in any such establishment where the bar was tended, not by the usual thug, but by a bright-eyed female in an apron.

" _You_ choose, then," said Shaftoe after this last, in a tone which betrayed a regrettable lack of appreciation for Jack's discerning tastes. By now, at least, they did not need to get out of the sun, for it had sunk behind the buildings. Jack'd taken this as a sign to slow down, and perambulate aimlessly until he happened upon a venue worthy of his custom. But he could see that this would not go down well with Shaftoe.

"That one," he said, gesturing more or less at random.

The inn -- the shingle above the door suggested that it might be named the Blue Boar, or perhaps the Putrefying Pig -- was on the corner where the lane met the main street to the harbour. It was a livelier hostelry than those they'd visited prior, and Shaftoe insisted on entering first, "since you're so ... picky," and gauging the lie of the land. (Jack, loitering outside in the friendly shade of a jacaranda bush, smirked to himself at how marvellously _nautical_ Jack Shaftoe's language had become, since he'd taken up with Jack's good self.)

"No one clean enough to be Navy," Shaftoe reported, sticking his head out of the door. "C'mon, Jack, it'll do. Though I should tell you, that Spitaels fellow's in 'ere."

"What's he up to, eh? Telling all his friends about the wicked pirates?"

"A bloke like that doesn't _have_ any friends," opined Shaftoe. "Nah, he's in the corner knocking back sack like there's no tomorrow."

"Is that so?" said Jack. "Well, it behooves us to ensure that there _is_ a tomorrow for Mr Spitaels; we've Employment for him."

"Still don't know why you're so keen to have 'im along," grumbled Shaftoe, holding the door open for Jack and following him in, very close. Jack could feel Shaftoe's breath on his sore neck, and it made him shiver: not at all an unwelcome sensation, given the ambient temperature, yet it bore its own burden of discomfort too.

"Could be he'll turn out of some _utility_ to us," said Jack, deliberately vague. He scanned the dim, low-ceiling interior of the inn until he located Spitaels, hunched over a table in a smoky recess. As chance would have it (and Jack reckoned Chance owed him a great deal, just at the moment) almost every seat in the place -- not to mention that percentage of the floor obscured by prone, snoring seamen -- was occupied: but the bench across from Spitaels was conspicuously vacant.

"Poor bloke prob'ly stinks of naphtha," deduced Jack. "Here, mate: you fetch us a bottle or two, whatever you like. I'll just have a quick word with our latest recruit." And he set off purposefully through the crowd to Pieter Spitaels's lonely corner of the busy room.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe, not for the first time that day, ground his teeth. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway of the inn, oblivious to the glances (not all of them appreciative) cast in his direction by the variously scarred, maimed and diseased clientele of the establishment.

Aye, maimed. Jack's left hand throbbed hotly as the Imp tweaked his ghost-finger, and leapt on his shoulder to whisper vile calumnies in his ear. _Gave it up for Jack Sparrow!_ it screeched, inaccurately. _That an' more an' more darlin'! Gave up your precious fresh flesh for him, an' all your quibbly qualms besides!_

"Bollocks," said Jack, more or less under his breath. Oh, how it helped to have someone to argue with, even if that someone was (as he'd oft suspected) no more than a flittery figment of his own raddled brain! And it wasn't as though _Sparrow_ were arguing with him: oh no. He wouldn't give Jack the satisfaction of an explanation, or a disagreement, or anything. Just went his own twisty way, and God rot anyone who questioned it.

Jack directed a malevolent glower t'wards that alcove at the back of the inn, where Sparrow had already settled himself across from the pock-marked, and now visibly nervous, Spitaels. He reassured himself with the improbability of Jack Sparrow wanting _anything_ , save information or local news, from such a character: yet he was uneasy at Sparrow's sudden friendship with the man.

"Goin' or stayin', mate?" growled a tall, scrawny bloke, jostling Jack. Jack's hand, his good hand, went to the hilt of his sword: but 'twould be madness to draw on anyone in such a busy, and potentially hostile, place, and so he mustered a civil nod and headed towards the bar.

The barkeep eyed him dubiously. Jack supposed he was no longer the fresh-faced, bright-eyed young man who, in the company of Enoch Root, had frequented this ville a few months back. (Enoch, for one, would never've deigned to set foot over the threshold of such a rough and ready place. Jack had become quite sick of his insistence on cleanliness and ventilation.) Doubtless the ravages of his time with a notorious pirate crew showed in every inch of his being. The barkeep seemed disinclined to provide him with any service at all: but Jack, a veteran of disdain and doubt, stared pointedly at him, and at last was rewarded with a surly enquiry, and shortly thereafter with a jug of the local brew.

At this stage of the afternoon, Jack was not especially concerned with the quality of his beverages: quantity mattered more. And since there was no sign of Sparrow's objectionable mood lifting, well, Jack might as well drink himself into some state vaguely approximating it. Hefting the jug, and not much caring if he slopped its contents over anyone, he shoved his way in the direction of the table where Spitaels and Sparrow leaned close together, deep in conversation.

Spitaels looked up at him, and Jack did not care for his expression: a kind of knowing leer. Could he suspect ...? Surely Sparrow wouldn't wax lyrical about the exact _nature_ of his relations with Jack Shaftoe: and Jack, having observed more than a few Unnatural Perversions (and their practitioners) of late, was sure that he did not carry himself, or speak, in any especially telling way. Not like some.

Not like Jack Sparrow. Why, even now he was lolling back in his seat, looking up with a smile as Jack approached, his black gaze quite impenetrable but (in Jack's unsober state) utterly beguiling.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," said Jack blithely, plonking the jug on the table (not too near to Spitaels: man could pay for his own refreshment) and settling himself next to Jack, just close enough that their knees touched under the table. How fabulously warm that touch felt! And how deliciously swiftly Jack's own mood was uplifted by Sparrow's newfound cheer!

Jack flicked a glance at the doorway, outside which the swift tropical night was casting a merciful veil over Port Royal. Perhaps, soon, they could ...

"Mr ... Mr _Spitaels_ , here," said Sparrow, with the care of the inebriate, "has been telling me all about quicksilver. Wonderful stuff, he says."

"Oh aye?" said Jack, trying to recall what he knew of the substance. His mind presented him, firstly, with an image of Enoch Root, gabbling on about some alchemical nonsense: secondly, with a memory of a little bead of silver rushing madly about a wooden maze: and, thirdly and almost too tardily (Jack was opening his mouth to emit some witticism about _slow_ silver, so much easier to _catch_ ), with the recollection that _he_ , Jack Shaftoe of London Town, was supposed -- not least by this crater-faced youth in his sweat-marked shirt -- to be an Alchemist of some repute.

"Aye, the Philosopher's Vinegar," he intoned. "There are many mysteries to be revealed by gazing into the Divine Water."

Jack was immensely proud of himself for remembering this nonsense -- one of Enoch's less fascinating monologues, concerned as it was with things that did not explode, transmute or otherwise provide entertainment -- but he managed to keep a straight face, even at Jack Sparrow's unfeigned admiration.

"You have studied --" began Spitaels, clearly gobsmacked by Jack's erudition.

"Aye," said Jack, gesturing broadly, "but time enough to talk of that once you're aboard, eh? If you're still set on joining us, that is." With any luck he'd've weaselled his way out of the arrangement, and Jack's imposture would remain unchallenged.

Sparrow blinked owlishly at him, and said, "He can have Enoch's bunk, eh? Plenty of room for all his supplies, there."

Still, once he was on board, Jack could cast off the pretence and be as ignorant as he pleased. And he held the trump card, after all: he had by heart the receipt for Greek Fire. Let Pieter Spitaels, and his singed eyebrows, and his good-for-nothing mercury, do better than _that_.

"Speaking of cabins," he said lightly, "we've an early start tomorrow. P'rhaps it's time to get some, some _rest_ , eh, gents?"

Under the table his knee pressed against Jack Sparrow's bony own: but Sparrow did not, for once, return the pressure.


	9. A Second Opinion, Chapter Nine

  
posting for [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**tessabeth**](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/) on the occasion of her Absence  
  
Sitting there opposite Pieter Spitaels, with his knowing grin and curative claims, Jack Sparrow had felt an unexpected surge of optimism. Oh, he'd seen the outcomes of some of the less successful type of corrective, and sworn to himself that he'd sooner let the devil in his blood have its way with him than swallow any elixir vitae that some quack claimed to be the solution to his ills; but that was... before. Before Jack Shaftoe, before Jack had such a terrible yearning to be live and whole and well and at Shaftoe's warm side for every moment of every day and night. Now, perhaps... perhaps it might be worthwhile to take that risk. Even if it gained him only a few more months.

So when Shaftoe suggested (yet again, with a persistence that warmed Jack's heart) that it might be time for _rest_ , Jack didn't argue it; but didn't press it, either, nor return the pressure of Shaftoe's knee, for he was unpleasantly unsure of what his newly treacherous body might allow. He took his leave of Spitaels, who'd grasped quickly enough that discretion was most definitely, in this case, the better part of staying alive till morning, and followed Shaftoe out into the darkening street.

"So," said Shaftoe, peering cautiously about for any Persons of Authority, and finding none, "Any preference, Jack?"

"Preference?" said Jack rather vaguely.

"Where d'you want to stay, tonight? Got anywhere in mind, or, d'you..." Shaftoe trailed off, and stared up the street, to where a gaggle of easy girls were preparing for their evening's entertaining, passing a bottle one to the next. He swallowed, visibly; Jack's eyes locked to the motion of his Adam's apple in his throat. "D'you want to go back to the Mermaid?" said Shaftoe, in the tone of one who really didn't care one way or another.

The tone that Jack adopted, himself, when he didn't want anyone to know his own disposition in a matter. He ground his teeth. Shaftoe wanted to go back, back to those bloody whores, back to that curly-haired blonde creature that he'd cradled so fondly this morning as she sobbed.

Damned if Jack was having that. He made a monumental effort, and dredged up a drunken, but undeniably lecherous grin.

"Come, Mr Shaftoe," he said, with a nudge of his elbow in Shaftoe's ribs, "surely we don't need any third parties to keep us entertained, do we? Not you and I, Jack?"

The width of Jack Shaftoe's smile was all white in the gloom, and Jack could envisage the dimple that was there, up high on his cheek. "'Magine we can amuse ourselves, if necessary," said Shaftoe, and his strong arm snaked about Jack's waist; Jack reciprocated, and they swayed off up the street.

Jack's heart was gladder than it'd been all this long day. Which might've been the day's drinking, or might've been the outcome of Pieter Spitael's sales pitch on behalf of mighty Mercury; but it did seem, oh it did, that he could get through this, and Jack Shaftoe be none the wiser for't. Just one more night of sweet, sweat-drenched delight in Shaftoe's arms, and then he could begin a Cure. He pressed tight against Shaftoe's side, and directed him with a push of his hip down a side-street.

"Where're we going, then?" muttered Shaftoe.

"I know a lovely lady down here," said Jack. "Lots of rooms. All clean and sweet, and she's no great affection for the law; she'll have a nice safe spot for thee and me, you can be sure of it."

"A nice, safe... quiet... private spot?"

"With a plump soft mattress," supplied Jack, his fingers tightening on Shaftoe's muscular torso.

"With no interruptions?" said Shaftoe, and he slowed his pace, turning to face Jack with a look that said he couldn't wait one more step, one more moment.

"None," said Jack, and Shaftoe's eyes flashed greedily, and he pushed Jack back into the darkness of a sheltered doorway and descended upon him.

Oh, it seemed an age since Shaftoe's mouth had been his, never mind that it wasn't even a day and a night. Jack gave a satisfied grunt, and opened his mouth to Shaftoe's seeking tongue, all redolent of rum and sweet Shaftoe heat; shoved his spare hand up into Shaftoe's thick hair, pulling him closer. The rough wood door was against his back, and the sharp-edged iron studs that punctuated it dug into his spine, deeper as Jack Shaftoe pressed all determined against him, and there was Shaftoe's glorious hard enthusiasm digging into Jack's hip, oh every bit as hard as the metal behind, a fleshly iron formed from their sure and certain lust for one another. All the day's bad temper seemed to fade away, here in Jack Shaftoe's warm want, and be replaced with—

Ah, ah _fuck_ ; to be replaced with a nasty stabbing pain as Jack's own prick responded in helpless kind. He let out a muffled squeak, which Shaftoe (thankfully) interpreted in a positive sort of a way, but oh Jesus Christ and all the saints, it was ten times worse than it'd been last night. (" _Tenfold_ " whispered through his head, doubtless the voice of some long-buried piece of religious indoctrination interpreting the Wages of Sin on Jack's behalf.)

He put a hand to Shaftoe's chest, pushing him back; tried not to wince, and merely murmur, "Wait, wait," as if he had every intention of finishing what they'd started just as soon as they got to Biddy O'Reilly's fine establishment.

"Been waiting all day," muttered Jack Shaftoe, resisting Jack's hand. "Waiting, and you in such a fit of mulligrubs, you bad-tempered bastard; but oh, Jack, I'd lay I can cheer you, eh? Ah, mate, it's good to feel you there 'gainst me..." And he ground his hips on Jack's in the sweetest, and yet the cruellest way possible. Jack gasped, but not for any of the reasons that Shaftoe might've (quite reasonably, and with reliable precedent) imagined. He felt quite dizzy from the pain of it, and pushed at Shaftoe again, wondering how on earth he was to keep this secret any longer; he ducked under Shaftoe's arm, slithered out of his grasp, and staggered into the street, biting at his lip till it bled.

"Why, 'pon my life! If it ain't the Captain of the _Black Pearl_!" came a voice from the darkness; and Jack was so glad to hear it he wouldn't much've cared if it'd been the Captain of the Watch hailing him.

Jack heard the snick and ring of Shaftoe's sword before he'd even decided whether or not to draw his own, but there was no call. "Hi, hi!" the voice said, testily. "'Tis only me, Jack, your old mate, Jeb: Jeb Parsons, surely you ain't forgot me, now!" And that gentleman, just as short as Jack recalled him but notably rounder, hove into view.

Parsons gave Jack Shaftoe a hard look, and enquired, "Any trouble, there, Jack?" Quite as though he'd be capable of addressing the issue if there _were_ ; a misapprehension which would've made Jack smirk if he weren't still half-incapacitated by the growling agony in his nether regions.

"None at all, Jeb," he managed. "This here's my very good friend, Mr Jack Shaftoe. Jack, Mr Jebediah Parsons." The two eyed one another warily, and exchanged curt nods.

"What're you doing in these parts?" said Parsons. "Thought you was a bit too _popular_ to spend much time round here."

"Oh, shan't be here for long," said Jack. Ah, small-talk; the perfect de-tumescent, particularly when paired with searing pain. He was feeling better already. "Actually," he improvised, "I was thinking of paying you a visit."

"Really?" said Jeb Parsons, a smile splitting his rosy face; "Really?" echoed Jack Shaftoe, in an unimpressed drawl.

"Aye," said Jack. "In fact, would right now suit you, Mr P?"

* * *

Capricious didn't even begin to cover it, thought Jack Shaftoe, and he paced anew in the small attic room that Mrs O'Reilly had seen fit to assign him. The man was impossible, irritating beyond belief, fickle, and—and chancy, and utterly unreliable. These words sprung easily to mind, having been directed at Jack himself often enough; turned out that that was a lot more pleasant than having to use them of another.

The Imp, taken by a fit of despondency, sprawled at the foot of the bed; the bed, as plump and soft as advertised, and yet, entirely empty (of anyone, or anything, fully corporeal). _O where's he run and gone and why ain't 'e here with us and you and me my Jack-love?_ it sighed, all overcome as some tragic heroine.

"I don't fuckin' know," muttered Jack, staring out across the rooftops from the tiny window, listening hard but hearing nothing save far-off sounds of revelry.

_Sure and certain he'll be back and soon, soon..._ murmured the Imp, though it'd never, in Jack's recall, sounded less certain about anything. _O my loveling could you not s'prise him, and wou'n't he be all goldy-smile and hum to find you here quite bare and warmly waiting?_

Jack had no confidence, at this point, that there would be any smiles involved in such a scenario, and wasn't willing to abase himself on the off-chance. Wasn't sure, indeed, why he was still here at all, and hadn't taken himself off down to the beach, to find Stone and Martingale, or the Mermaid to find Nat—to find Nettie, he corrected himself irritably. Really, it was unsupportable; Jack Sparrow taking himself off with that portly little fellow, all friendly as you please, and telling Jack Shaftoe that he'd not be long, and Jack was to find Mrs O'Reilly and a night's lodging—what in hell's name did he think Jack Shaftoe was, to be ordered thus, and then—then!—sit around and wait upon some pirate's pleasure?

Jack was riling himself up most effectively. It was only his body's desperate insistence, its deep-grained memories of glorious torrid pleasure, that'd kept him in this room this long; but that would only tie him down so long, and he'd had enough. Yes, he was off, and plague take Jack Sparrow if he thought he could swan about like some Barbary pasha and—

The door burst open and Jack Sparrow came dancing through, kicking it closed behind him, a great grin on his face, a fine brown coat upon his back, an unnaturally clean leather tricorne upon his head, and a bundle under his arm.

"Sorry I was so long," he declared, "Did you miss me, eh, Jack?"

Jack scowled at this cheery vision, torn between the pleasure of Sparrow's return and indignant rage. "Shopping?" he said, hearing the word emerge with an acidity that was perfectly foreign to him, and rather disconcerting. "I had to sit here like some great lump of idiot while you went fucking _shopping_ with your mate?"

"He's not me mate," said Sparrow blithely. "He's a business acquaintance. He's in the way of passing on goods. You know… goods that might not be entirely, ah, honestly come by."

"He's your fence."

"Aye, but Jack, oh Jack, close your eyes, eh mate? And hold out your hands?"

"Why?" said Jack, still annoyed; but it was clear that Sparrow had something in that bundle that he wanted to bestow on Jack, and Jack was never averse to gifts, deserved or otherwise, and he considered this one to be well-earnt. So he complied.

The bundle was heavy, and solid; he opened his eyes, and saw that he was holding something wrapped around in dark canvas.

"Those're yours an'all, some new breeches, and I think they might even fit you. But look inside, go on, do!"

Jack did as he was bid, and unwrapped the bundled breeches carefully, feeling heavy things shift under the fabric; and there they were. A brace of pistols, oh God, lovely things; the stocks inlaid in silver and brass, all etched with curling vines and tiny running beasts, glimmering in the lanthorn-light. Finer weapons than any Vagabond should hope to possess. Heavy in Jack's hands, and yet when he hefted one, its balance was sweet and good.

"Look, look," said Sparrow, and angled the butt of one towards the lanthorn. It was capped with a tiny, scowling face, its teeth bared in vicious threat. "What could I do? Just reminded me of you," said Jack Sparrow, with a grin.

Jack looked into those smiling black eyes, and couldn't maintain any anger, not any more. He didn't have any idea how to respond to such a gift, had never been given one like it; but was reasonably confident that tradition, not to mention etiquette, dictated that one was supposed to thank the giver. "I," he started, and then stopped.

"What?" said Sparrow. "You like 'em, don't you?"

"Aye," said Jack, "they're fine. Very fine. So fine, in fact, that every man as sees me with 'em will say to himself, why, there goes Jack Shaftoe, and I bet he stole them pistols," he added with a grin.

"Come, Jack, they were going to say that anyway," said Sparrow archly. "And ain't this hat just the perfect pair to my other, as was... lost? I'd've got you one too, but Jeb hadn't another."

Jack ran his fingertips over the pistol's plate again, and then laid them both carefully upon the table.

"Thank you, Jack," he said, and pulled Sparrow into an embrace. "Thank you," as he pushed his face into the warm mess of Sparrow's hair. "So," he muttered, "I dare say I'd better find some way to show you my 'ppreciation, eh?" And he ran his palm, flat and firm, down the swaying curve of Sparrow's spine, pulling him forward.

"And look what else I got," said Sparrow, twisting away with a grin. He pulled a bottle from an inner pocket of his new coat. "Rum, decent rum! Unwatered! So we can have a drink!"

"A drink," said Jack, who'd been drinking since before noon and really couldn't imagine that more, at this point, would substantially increase his happiness quotient; in fact, possibly the reverse.

"A drink," said Sparrow in tones of great determination, and threw himself down on one of the rickety chairs.

On the bed, the Imp of the Perverse hissed and scowled, and shook its bony fist; Jack Shaftoe stifled the urge to do the same.


	10. A Second Opinion, Chapter Ten

  
  
Once had been more than enough, though excusable under the circumstances. _Then_ , Sparrow (freshly ravish'd by Jack's eager mouth) had been drugged, and wounded, and exhausted by their adventures on the reef. Jack recalled vividly the sensation of lying awake next to Sparrow's newly-satiated and gently snoring form, hand on himself, all alight with the notion of fucking Jack Sparrow as soon as possible.

_Now_ , though, it was a different matter: and Jack blazed with fury and hurt, though he could not deny that underneath it all there was still that frisson of lust and desire and craving, a frisson that never really went away when he was in Sparrow's presence.

Never before had he thought that it might not be reciprocated.

It was early yet -- early for Port Royal, at least -- and Jack could hear people laughing and shouting and arguing, _cheering_ for fuck's sake, down on the street; the sound of other people's enjoyment made his incipient hangover echo like a struck bell. Beside him Sparrow snored. From the way his eyes were rolling beneath their closed, smudged lids, he was having vivid dreams: from the twitching of his limbs, they were not entirely enjoyable ones. Good, thought Jack viciously. Bastard deserves it.

Despite the heat of the room they were both still dressed, though Sparrow'd taken off his new coat (treating it with more care than he'd treated _Jack_ , come to think of it) and hung it from a rusty nail that stuck out from the door-jamb at a vicious angle. Sparrow'd seemed disinclined to disrobe further; and Jack, robbed of skin and lust and salt, had not felt like sitting naked, or even half-naked, in his company.

If he were aboard the _Black Pearl_ , he'd've climbed up to the foretop, or paced the deck, letting the cool sea air soak his mood (not to mention his headache) away. Here in the town, though, the air was hot and sticky, with no hope of a breeze.

And yet: they were in the town. The town!

No reason to stay put.

Jack got up from the bed, and pulled on his boots. He stood for a moment looking down at Sparrow, who did not stir. Awkward, contrary, inconstant sod: Jack wanted him no less than before.

But Jack Sparrow did not want _him_.

Luckily, Jack knew a panacea for that. Helping himself to a few coins from Sparrow's coat pocket, and the rest of the rum (for a guest who brings refreshment is ever more welcome than one who arrives empty-handed) he went downstairs and out into the hot, noisy, crowded night.

He was not armed, save for his knife, and so he went carefully, avoiding clusters of men who might decide a solitary male was fair game for pressing, or robbing, or simple assault. His mind shied away from the thought of the pistols that Sparrow'd brought him. A fine gift indeed; but perhaps they were a guilt-offering, a sop for Sparrow's sentiments. Jack would've sworn that Sparrow'd wanted him, back in that doorway on the way to Mrs O'Reilly's house: would've sworn that Jack Sparrow, all heat and strength and hardness curved up against him, was as eager to be alone, skin to skin, around and about and in and out, as Jack himself. Yet he'd all but pushed Jack away; had drunk deep and long from the bottle (Jack took a restorative swig at the memory) and not looked Jack in the eye, not once, while he recounted a long and tedious tale about Jeb Parsons and some looted Spanish undergarments.

Jack, floundering in a morass of confus'd Emotions and wandering the convoluted back-streets of an unfamiliar part of town, was by now utterly lost: but his feet, untroubled by any of the activity in more elevated parts of his body, had led him true, and now -- cursing Spanish silks and lace -- he looked up, and saw that painted Mermaid hanging there, all lit up by the light spilling out of the upstairs rooms.

Nettie noticed him almost as soon as he'd crossed the threshold, and sprang up, leaving her previous customer scowling and muttering.

"You're back right quickly, Mr Shaftoe!" she said. "Not brought your pretty friend with you?"

Jack would've blushed at the memory of what she'd watched him do to Jack Sparrow last night: but the cold ache of rejection counterbalanced any unwonted embarrassment, and he was able to smile, after a fashion, and say, "Nah, he couldn't take the pace: sleepin' it off, love. Thought I'd find myself some _livelier_ company."

"Poor ol' Jack Sparrow," said Nettie, settling herself on his knee and beckoning for a jug of ale before Jack could prevent it. "It can't be easy on _you_ , Jack-my-love, neither, with him that way."

"You've no idea," said Jack feelingly. "It's ..."

But he was not quite sure _what_ it was, and so he left the sentence hanging, and shook his head sorrowfully, in the hope of sympathy if nothing else. Though, given the almost permanent state of lubricity that Jack Sparrow induced in him, Jack could think of several something elses that'd make him feel better. He shifted his knee under Nettie's weight, tilting her against him, and tried to forget about wicked dark gazes, and hard muscled limbs, and oh god the heat inside him, inside ...

"You was lucky with 'im last night," Nettie went on, obliviously. "Some blokes can't get it up at all, when they've a bad bout of it: but your Captain Sparrow didn't seem to be having any problems of _that_ kind, oh no!"

Nettie giggled, and Jack could not help grinning back at her: could not deny the sweetness of the memory she'd evoked, of Jack Sparrow arched and stretched beneath him, mouth open invitingly, writhing and _bad bout?_

You could blame a lot of things on disease and sickness. Lack of, well, Vigour; wounds that were slow to heal; Christ, even that uncharacteristic foul temper.

"What d'you mean, a bad bout?" he demanded. "A bout of what?"

Nettie flinched from his expression. "Oh, I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks," she said hastily, glancing around the room as though seeking some distraction. "I've seen men a lot worse'n your poor ol' Captain, and they'll come in next month without a trace of it."

Jack was sick of people not looking him in the eye. He cupped Nettie's round, pock-marked chin in his hand, as gently as he could, and made her meet his gaze.

"Nettie, love, just tell me straight: what's wrong with Jack Sparrow?"

* * *

Jack Sparrow was in a maze, all walled with red-hot metal so that a man had to walk slowly and carefully for fear of scorching himself on a corner that was closer than it seemed. He kept seeing people he knew, ahead of him; there was Jack Shaftoe, looking cross, and Jack hurried to catch up with him. He'd run after Cooper, earlier, but remembered just in time that Cooper was dead. Chasing after ghosts was never a smart idea, and Jack -- despite the heat -- felt a welcome coolness as he'd stopped running, and a shiver as he'd thought of what might've happened. Though he could not remember the exact details of that fate, any more. Probably all for the best, really.

Shaftoe must've been laying in wait for him around some burning orange corner, for his hands were on Jack's arms, not very gentle. Jack cried out in protest at this un-loverly treatment -- what'd made Shaftoe so rough and urgent with him? -- and struggled, but Shaftoe was shaking him, and the walls were fading, fortuitously, into blessed darkness, and Jack fought back, not quite sure what was happening, but --

The little room was hot and close, and Jack was sweating as though he'd been hauling sails all night. There was a single lanthorn, set on the table, and by its light he could see Jack Shaftoe hanging over him, scowling, saying something.

Jack concentrated on listening to Shaftoe's words, though he did not stop writhing and twisting in an effort (largely reflexive) to escape Shaftoe's hold. Ungentle indeed, and though it no longer seemed an _attack_ , Jack was still not comfortable. Attacks came in many guises: and, in his present state (not that he wished to dwell on _that_ ) even a rude, delectable caress from Shaftoe at his most deliciously forceful might count as Assault.

Shaftoe was going on about Jack not telling him something. Jack keeping secrets. (What did he expect, eh?) "... as important to me as to you, Jack?"

Jack blinked up at him. Shaftoe's eyes, pupils dilated in the gloom, were wonderfully blue after the red and orange and blood-colours of his dream. "Wha'?" managed Jack, getting his hands on Shaftoe's wrists (careful of the finger-stump) and pushing them away.

Shaftoe let him free himself; but still he hung over Jack, one knee up on the bed beside Jack's hip, and scowled at him. Jack could smell perfume, and he scowled back. "Visiting a _friend_ , were we?"

"You weren't interested," countered Shaftoe, "an' anyway, Nettie was most _forthcoming_."

Jack made a face. "Should've said you were missing your girl, Jack: we could've gone back and seen 'em, if you wanted." Hoping 'gainst hope that Shaftoe would say "no, no, you're all I want"; though the perfume rather belied that.

"I went out," said Shaftoe, "because you plainly didn't want me round you, Jack. And now I know why: Nettie told me why." And before Jack could do very much about it, Shaftoe was tilting Jack's head -- his hands suddenly gentle again -- and touching one long, grubby finger to the weal on Jack's neck.

Jack fought back a yelp at the sting of Shaftoe's salt skin on his raw flesh.

"Why din't you tell me?" Shaftoe demanded. (Good question, thought Jack: wish I could remember the answer.) "Didn't you think I'd figure it out?"

"Well, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack's mouth before his brain could assume control again, "you _didn't_ figure it out, did you?"

"Should've done," said Shaftoe truculently. "Lord knows I've seen it enough, Jack: seen it on meself, to tell you the truth. It's a bugger when it flares up, eh?"

That particular choice of epithet made Jack smirk, and he grinned wider at Shaftoe's expression as he realised what he'd said; and then, just at the _thought_ \-- not even a thought, really, more an appreciative moment's nostalgia -- the ache started up in his prick again, and he bit his lip.

Shaftoe was watching him, frowning a little. "It's a shame Enoch's off on his travels," he said. "Last time I was bad with it, he gave me something that made it less trouble -- though I've no idea what that Remedy might've been."

"Funny you should mention Enoch," said Jack, shuffling backward so he could lean against the headboard, and coincidentally be further from Shaftoe's irresistable heat and strength: most distracting, was Jack Shaftoe. "'Cause that Spitaels fellow's got a few _remedies_ , he claims, for this condition."

" _That's_ what you were so keen to talk to him about, eh?" said Shaftoe, all relieved. Jack could've kissed him: but that was probably not sensible, under the circumstances. He restricted himself to a nod.

"If he's a Treatment for it," declared Shaftoe, "then I swear I'll welcome him aboard, Jack. An' how if we both take the cure?"

"Not so hasty, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, holding up a finger. "What if it don't work, eh?"

Oh Christ, that scowl, all fervent and intense, manifesting 'twixt Shaftoe's thick black brows! Oh, the way he was looking at Jack, all solicitous and sympathetic and affectionate! He put his hand on Jack's sheeted knee, and pressed; and Jack swore at the barbed tingle of desire that shot through his entire corpus at Shaftoe's touch.

"Harden your heart, Mr Shaftoe," he said curtly, "for I have to tell you, mate, your _solace_ is having an effect on parts of me that I'd rather weren't affected, if you take my meaning."

Shaftoe pouted like a girl, but drew back and settled himself at the other end of the bed: perilously close, as far as Jack was concerned, but it'd do for a while longer.

"You was all right last night," Shaftoe pursued.

"Aye," said Jack. "But that was last night: and besides, we had company." He leered. "Couldn't let the ladies down, now, could I?"

" _Fuck_ the ladies," said Jack Shaftoe, in a tone that implied he'd do no such thing. "I want you all to myself, Jack; don't you know it?"

Jack was immeasurably pleased by this statement, which was everything he'd hoped for a minute before: but he held on to a smidgeon of jealousy, so's not to get too carried away by it all. "Didn't notice you complaining, mate, when they laid their pretty paws on you. And why'd you go there tonight, when you left me, eh?"

Shaftoe shrugged. "Nowhere particular else to go," he said. "An' anyway, I thought you'd had enough of me."

Jack's vanity swelled more: so, regrettably, did a more corporeal part of himself. Christ, it hurt. He flicked a glance at the small, gauzed window. Surely that was a paling in the sky?

"Well, Mr Shaftoe," he said, "I wish I were in a state to show you how very, awf'lly much I _haven't_ yet enjoyed of you: but under the circumstances, I really think it's better all 'round if we don't linger here much longer."

"Why's that?" said Jack Shaftoe, lolling there at the foot of the bed, looking at Jack with those blueblue eyes, the epitome of temptation.

"Why, Jack, because I burn for you: and if we stay here, and come together, and embrace," said Jack, helpless with pain and with the aftermath of rum-sodden dreams, "I'll burn up entirely."


	11. A Second Opinion, Chapter Eleven

  
posting for [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**tessabeth**](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/) , who is still out of range ...  
  
It'd been barely light when they'd knocked upon Pieter Spitael's darkened doorway, though lighter by the time that gentleman had finally managed to rouse himself from his bed, stagger noisily to the door (the trail of crashing and smashing and cursing suggested that he hadn't tidied much since their last visit), and work his way through the multitude of locks and bolts that kept him safe inside. If there'd been a fire, Jack'd mused, the man would be entirely done for, if it took him this long to get out. Jack, bordering on claustrophobic by temperament (and unpleasantly splenetic, today, after his disturbed night of dreams and discoveries), considered this way of life perfectly distasteful.

There was overall very little to like about Spitaels; but still, he might be very useful, and so Jack'd curbed the curl of his lip, and plastered on a smile. Had been pleasant and patient in the face of the Alchemist's complaints about the smallness of the hour, and the difficulties of preparing oneself for a sea voyage of unknown destination and duration. Shaftoe, all taciturn from a night without rest, had merely clamped his jaw shut and played hired muscle, descending into the noxious dark of Spitaels' cellar and rolling two great noisome barrels up the stone steps, loading them onto a handcart while Jack (summoning up the patience of a saint by reminding himself of his need for Spitaels' medicinal intervention) listened to the whining, and nodded understandingly, and commiserated, and finally chivvied the man out of his house.

Now, hunkered down on the far end of the beach, where trees overhung the damp sand and kept them from the curious gaze of the waking town, they awaited Stone and Martingale; to pass the time, Jack regaled Spitaels with the tale of the reef, and the creature that lurked within it.

"Got me right about the neck, and the arm, all tight and tentacled, and ooh, the suck of it! There weren't a thing you could do, to get it off, eh Jack?"

"No," said Shaftoe, a little shortly. He wasn't really listening; he'd unwrapped the pistols Jack'd given him last night, and was examining them, cocking and firing though they were unloaded, assessing the sight-line of the barrel, accustoming his hands to the heft and balance of them. His broad hands were quick and competent, so delightfully so that Jack had to tear his eyes away, 'fore some thought entered all unbidden and unwelcome and dragging pain in its wake. 'Twas a good thing, anyway, that Shaftoe liked his present. Jack would give him the world, if he could; if it would make up for all those delightful immaterial things that he couldn't give right now.

"But you did get it off, obviously," said Spitaels dryly, "for it's not longer attached to you, Captain."

Jack jerked his shirt aside; there were still faint circular marks about his neck, all these weeks later. "I din't get it off at all," he said. "It pulled me down below to its lair, and would've done for me, had not Jack Shaftoe come down and killed it."

"But if it's dead, why must we --"

"There's more, fool," snapped Shaftoe, with a roll of his eyes. "And we figure there must be some better way to dispose of 'em than one by one in hand-to-hand, underwater combat."

Spitaels, silenced by Shaftoe's ferocity, subsided; then looked again at Jack's neck, where he'd pulled his shirt aside. "The chancre worsens," he noted, with professional disinterest.

Jack pulled his shirt tight about his throat, and pulled his hair forward. Found his fingers fondling Shaftoe's fingerbone, there at the end of a braid, and clutching it tight, as he counted to five in an effort to control his wild surge of temper at Spitaels' unforgivable stupidity. Christ, if Shaftoe hadn't worked it out for himself already, what sort of way would that've been, to learn...!

When he thought he could speak without shrieking in rage (though his voice came out all strangulated, still), Jack said "Sir, did we not have an accord, made clear yesterday? That you were to speak of that matter to _no-one_?"

Pieter Spitaels blanched, and then two bright points of colour appeared on his cheeks as he realised what he'd said. "Captain," he stuttered, "I --"

"Save it," said Shaftoe, "I know anyway. But I swear to you, mate..." And now he looked up, and levelled his unloaded firearm at Pieter Spitaels. "If you say a word; make a gesture; raise one of your fucking sad excuses for eyebrows, do _anything_ that will give anyone on the _Pearl_ cause to suspect that Jack Sparrow ain't a well man ... I. Will. Kill. You. Understood?"

Spitaels just nodded, all pallid and sweaty with fear. Jack couldn't blame him. Ooh, Shaftoe making death threats; he had a special talent for it. Jack was pretty good at it himself; but when Shaftoe did it, it was so very sure and fierce, and there was absolutely no question of whether he'd see it through. And there he was, threatening _on Jack's behalf_ ; it was enough to make Jack perfectly weak with lust. Oh was there anything that Jack Shaftoe could do that _didn't_ make Jack want to hurl himself on the man, rip and wriggle till he found that gorgeous skin, writhe and push and suck and kiss till-- But no! Aah! Oh shit _ouch_! He wasn't going to think those things!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this cure could not come quick enough.

"That goes for you too, Mr Shaftoe," Jack made himself say, curtly as he could, to damp down that spiky pain.

"You 'magine I'll turn this pistol 'pon myself, do you, to teach myself a lesson?" said Shaftoe with heavy sarcasm. "Or are you personally going to take my life, Captain?"

Oh, the mere thought of it; perfectly ridiculous. "I mean," Jack amended, "you're not to mention it to anyone. Not Bill, not anyone. I'll not have them thinking I'm not ... right."

Shaftoe gave him a steady gaze. "You've no need to even ask it, Jack," he said, low, and reached out a hand towards Jack's arm; Jack's eyes widened in panic, at the thought of what an affectionate touch from Jack Shaftoe might bring with it, and Shaftoe must've seen it. He dropped his hand, and a flicker of pain rushed across his face. He turned away, and Jack closed his eyes, just for a second. Just to help himself get over the cruelty of fearing Jack Shaftoe's touch.

"There they are," said Shaftoe, roughly, and Jack looked up the beach to see Martingale and Stone, wading knee-deep in the water, pulling the cutter between them.

*

They did not sail across the bay, parading in front of the good burghers of Port Royal; instead, Jack Sparrow ordered a sou'west course, with orders to bear round sou'east once they were out of sight of Jamaica. He and Jack went down below for some cold gruel and small beer, then showed Spitaels to the tiny cabin he'd share with Bill Turner (who, on hearing that he had another houseguest so soon after his last, had stifled a sigh, clamped his lips together, and taken himself down to the hold to oversee the stowage of the naphtha).

Sparrow'd taken his leave of Spitaels and gone back up to take the helm. Jack was not enamoured of this plan; felt, for himself, that he'd done quite enough already today, and deserved some rest after the exigencies of the night. But Sparrow was determined, and swore that fresh air would wake him up, and that nothing was better for the soul, nor body, than sailing a ship as fine as his; so he was standing at the wheel, bawling the occasional command, and Jack was slouched in a corner of the quarterdeck, just watching over him, when Bill came back on deck. A faint whiff of naphtha accompanied him.

"So, Jack," said Bootstrap Bill, "you're sure you want to do this? To go back to that reef?"

"Whyever not?" said Sparrow. "There's riches down there, mate. Don't you want to live easy? Be able to give a good life to your Kitty, your little William? Ain't that what we're here for?"

"Just remember," said Bill darkly, "that no amount of riches is going to be enjoyed if you're not hale and whole to do the enjoying." This was doubtless merely a reference to the dangers of Alchemical Experimentation, but it held a certain horrid subtext for his listeners.

Jack ground his teeth. They'd been aboard no more than an hour, and here was Bill already, griping and moaning like an old woman. Too Bob-like to bear. "I ain't whole any more," he said, waving his hand about belligerently, "and I assure you there's been _plenty_ to enjoy recently. Me and Jack've been _enjoying_ ourselves like mad." He mostly said this to imply that he, Jack Shaftoe, was more to Sparrow now than Bill was. It wasn't nice. But he was tired. And Bill was such a pain in the _arse_.

"You must've been 'enjoying' yourselves the last two days, and nights," Bill snapped back. "Because you both look like death warmed over. Look at him!" he added, gesturing at Sparrow, and glaring at Jack, as if he'd personally done it.

Jack did look, and Sparrow looked ... sick. Pale, with great dark shadows under his eyes, and not from any lamp-black neither. The hollows of his cheeks were _too_ hollow; his big black eyes _too_ big in his face. Even his mouth, his beautiful kissable mouth, looked wan and drained. His indignant expression, at being held up as an exemplar of looking like crap, did nothing to hide it.

"He's tired," argued Jack. "I do apologise if we know how to have _fun_ , Mr Turner; could give you a lesson, if you'd like, since you clearly can't recall it at all."

Bill shook his head and decided to take the high moral ground in this dispute. "Go and rest then, if you're tired, Jack," he said, putting a hand on Sparrow's arm.

Jack had a flashback to the beach; to not being able to do just that, to not being able to comfort or soothe. To the room at O'Reilly's, and being told to harden his heart, and not cause Sparrow pain. Perhaps, here and now, Bill Turner could give Sparrow something that Jack couldn't. "Aye," he said, less quarrelsome, and giving Turner a glance that might almost be interpreted as apologetic. "Go rest, Jack; Bill and I'll keep all running smooth, eh?"

"I might," said Sparrow nonchalantly, though he looked ready to drop there and then. "Think I ate something nasty at the Boar," he added, for Bill's benefit.

"Terrible, that pottage was," said Jack helpfully. "Gave me a real gripe."

"You need some sleep, too," said Sparrow, though without his usual enthusiasm when it came to inviting Jack to his -- their -- bed. Jack wanted, more than anything, to go down with him; just to tuck him into his cot, to curl up beside him, to sleep there 'longside Jack Sparrow's warm dreams and breathing. But, after what Sparrow'd said earlier; after that look on the beach; best, perhaps, to leave him. So Jack declared that he was "Not tired at all, me; couldn't sleep to save myself;" and Sparrow, giving him one quizzical look, took himself off.

Bill looked down at Jack, a blank look, as though he couldn't make up his mind whether or not he was still angered. "Don't think you're needed, mate," he said eventually. "You ain't exactly an expert mariner. I can manage wi'out you."

Fine with Jack. He had other matters to attend to.

*

Pieter Spitaels seemed glad to see him. He had not dared venture from Turner's cabin, and from the way he jumped at every sudden noise, Jack surmised that he wasn't entirely comfortable, yet, about his new surroundings; about being a guest on a pirate vessel.

"Mr Shaftoe," he said, all ingratiating, ushering Jack into the cramped little room. He'd brought not one, but three chests with him, and one was open already, with books and clothes strewn about. The sheer scale of the mess, relative to the space in which it was occurring, was impressive. Also, hah, it was going to piss off Bill Turner no end; which thought brought a rather unkind smile to Jack's face.

"... Are you come to discuss your receipt? Though I should be most grateful to talk with you on more general Alchemical matters, also... I have just been leafing through _The Marrow of Alchemy_ , with which you are doubtless familiar, and I find myself in disagreement with some of Philalethes' conclusions, though-"

"It's all crap, everything that fellow said," Jack opined. "Don't believe a word of it. Complete charlatan. But no, I'm not here to discuss Phil-, Phila-, _The Marrow_. I'm here to tell you that you need to start whatever it is you're going to do to cure Captain Sparrow. Now. And to tell you that, trust me; it better fucking work."

Spitaels, cowering a little, sat down on Turner's cot. He picked nervously at a scabby pimple at the side of his nose, and bit at his lip, and frowned thoughtfully, and said nothing beyond a mumbled, "Ah. Yes. Of course. Ah."

Jack was seized with a terrible fear that this fellow, this horrid greasy little fellow in whose hands Jack Sparrow's life hung, had no bloody idea what he was about; a horrid thought which flooded him with an achy nostalgia for Enoch Root. They'd certainly traded down in their choice of Alchemist. Still, Jack might not be able to improve this one's knowledge; but he could certainly give him plenty of _motivation_.

"So, talk to me," Jack said, as he sat down on an unopened chest, pulled out his knife, and began to clean under his fingernails. "Let's talk about what you're going to do, to cure him. And let's talk about his prognosis. And then, sir;" He paused, then looked up, quick and sudden, and there was a glint of light from his blade as he flicked dirt out from under a nail. "Then, let's talk about _yours_."


	12. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twelve

  
  
Jack Sparrow sprawled out, stretching, trying to persuade himself that 'twas luxury, rather than necessity, to have the bed all to himself. Shaftoe was up on deck somewhere, and Jack determinedly turned his mind's eye from the image of Jack Shaftoe all windswept and smiling, up there in the sun; banished that image from his mind, before his traitorous body could get in on the act, with the inevitable, uncomfortable result.

Best think on something unlovely, to counter all those Shaftoe-thoughts that kept crowding into his head. Jack's skin remembered the press of Jack Shaftoe's all along his side, just lying there, sleeping close, arm over Jack's waist; his brain presented the memory of Shaftoe rolling closer, his hand delving under the sheet --

Jack groaned, and clutched at himself, and swore; though quietly, for if Shaftoe were within earshot (Jack hadn't missed the forlorn bravery in his eyes, claiming wakefulness to spare Jack the ache of his presence) he'd be in to check on Jack, and _that_ ... that would be terrible.

Which thought was more painful than the burning pain in his groin.

Pieter Spitaels, then. Jack dwelt grimly on the man's craterous visage, the swollen pustules of his face: Christ, he couldn't be twenty with skin like that. Shame to've let Enoch Root leave, really -- 'specially since Shaftoe'd sworn that Root knew a trick or two when it came to treating the Pox.

Yes, that was a wonderfully, blessedly unsensual memory. Root and Burton in the cutter, faces upturned in the drizzle as they cried out their last farewells. Burton'd even managed a smile, though it'd been a wan rigid echo of his former cheer. Jack, somewhat indisposed that day, had not gone ashore with them to see them on their way: instead, Martingale and Bootstrap had rowed the two of them to that squalid little settlement at the mouth of a broad, fierce river which Enoch had selected as their point of departure.

"Do you think you'll be back this way, Captain?" Enoch had enquired.

"No definite plans yet, Mr Root," Jack'd said. "But it's as likely as any other point in the Caribee. Why, d'you want to be collected, when you're done?" Thinking (he remembered it now) that if Enoch Root _did_ find this fabled Pox-remedy -- not to mention untold wealth, legendary cities, the Fountain of Youth and all those other travellers' phant'sies that Enoch seemed so very _credulous_ of -- why, Jack Sparrow wouldn't say no to a share in the profits.

Enoch had shrugged, as though the prospect of being stranded in Guyana with only John Burton for company was of no concern to him. "Oh, I'm sure we'll find a ship to carry us to more _populous_ locations," he'd said. "But we'll meet again, Jack; I'm certain of it."

With hindsight, Jack couldn't help but think that he'd rather've endured Enoch's medicinal regimes than given himself up to the spotty adolescent they'd recruited in his place. To be fair, though, the infernal Pox had been in merciful abeyance while Enoch was around: 'twas only lately that it had made itself apparent again. Jack mused for a while on why this might be. P'rhaps he'd overdone, well, Things, with Shaftoe: perhaps he'd worn himself out, worn away the layers and let the Pox burst forth again from beneath his skin. Oh, but Shaftoe was so utterly irresistable, and desirable, and ...

_Not_ thinking 'bout him, Jack reminded himself fiercely.

No, Spitaels could work his Alchemy on Jack's person: by the time they reached the reef, Jack'd be his own self again. And Jack Shaftoe ... oh, Jack Shaftoe could, once more, be his.

* * *

"'Tis a simple _equation_ ," Jack Shaftoe told Spitaels, hoping that his expression was sufficiently implacable to hide the furious processes occurring beneath. Who'd've thought that Enoch's interminable Lectures and Seminars could be turned to such profit, eh? Certainly not Jack: not before now, anyway, or he'd have paid more attention back on the _Dolphin_ with Enoch scattering fragments of Alchemy as casually as those powders and filings that'd had such very _impressive_ results when brought together. Now, though, Jack -- whose quick wit and trickery had won him a place on this very ship, not to mention Enoch's friendship and, ooh, Jack Sparrow's ... admiration -- must combine and ignite those fragments, and produce not only Effects, but Results. With his current Experiment, he hoped to instil Terror into the rabbity heart of Pieter Spitaels: hardly a momentous Effect, since Spitaels seemed nervous enough to expire (Jack meticulously pared a hangnail) at the mere _notion_ of violence, but hopefully one that would bring forth the desir'd Result, that being a treatment for Jack Sparrow.

"And this, this _equation_ ," stutted Spitaels. "Might that be the Receipt of which we spoke?"

"What? Oh, yes: the Greek Fire, that's what you wanted, was it not?" Jack made a show of consideration. "Well, sir, I think that must await proof of your skills and knowledge. Alchemy is an Art, Mr Spitaels, and I dread to think of the devastation that might be wreaked if such knowledge were imparted to a man who didn't have a -- that is, who did not _fully comprehend_ the innermost workings of the Great Mystery."

Jack was hard-put to keep a straight face, spouting such bollocks: but judging by Spitaels' anxious expression, it'd had the desired Effect.

"But how may I prove --"

"As I said before," Jack reminded him, "there's a simple equation. If you produce this cure of which you spoke, and it proves, proves efficacious -- by which I mean Jack Sparrow restor'd entirely to health -- why, then you'll prove yourself ready to learn more of the Art, see?"

"But, but what if it doesn't work?"

Jack -- having rather fewer fingernails than he'd originally possessed -- found his manicure complete. He wiped his knife ostentatiously on his breeches, making sure that the shine and shimmer of the blade reflected the dazzle of noontide sunshine into the Walloon's face.

"If it proves _ineffectual_ , Mr Spitaels," he said, "if it fails to produce the desired Result ..."

There was clearly no need to conclude the threat: Spitaels had evidently caught the gist of it, and was probably, even now, entertaining horrid visions of what punishment a hardened pirate such as Jack Shaftoe might practice 'pon him. Jack wished he could see inside Spitael's mind -- an untidy and unhealthy place, no doubt -- and discover what phant'sied vengeances were being imputed to him. A man could achieve so much with a gruesome bit of threatening, and it was ever so much _quicker_ than actual violence: but Jack (quite dizzy with sleeplessness) was not at his most inventive just now. His hand ached, too, where his ghost-finger _oh Christ Jack Sparrow's tongue_ had woken, and was making itself known; but damned if he'd ask this gormless youth for any salve.

Jack summoned what geniality he could to temper his earlier threat. "Now, Mr Spitaels," he said, "let's to business, eh?"

"N-now?"

"Aye," said Jack. "Your Receipt, Mr Spitaels: you've brought the ingredients, I s'pose?"

"Well," said Spitaels. "That is. Well."

"You _don't_ have the ingredients?" said Jack softly, with his sharpest smile.

Spitaels opened his mouth, and out poured an undigested mess: Jack recognised some names (Paracelsus and Valentine and Dee) from his time with Enoch, and from various mountebanks he'd encountered in the vicinity of the Pont Neuf in Paris, but Spitaels seemed determined to confound him with nonsense about marriages and mortifications. "Sulphur in the red colour," he was saying, "and salt in the black earth."

"We've salt enough," said Jack airily, waving a hand. Christ, Enoch had never _dithered_ like this: he'd known what he was doing. A green twist of worry snaked in Jack's gut at the thought of letting this idiot loose on bright shining Jack Sparrow. But Sparrow's brightness had been rather _dimmed_ , of late: and the alternative was ever so much worse. "You've probably noticed, Mr Spitaels, that we're on a _ship_ in the middle of the _sea_. Never mind the black earth: just boil up a kettle, eh? Now, what do you lack, sir?"

The man had packed all sorts of rubbish -- there was that splintery dog-skull again, and a bundle of old twigs, and jars packed, as far as Jack (who could not read the label) could tell, with pickled rats -- but finally, with Bootstrap's cabin transmutated to the very image of Spitael's messy hovel behind the chandlery, Spitaels rummaged in a sack and produced a bottle of something that shone and rippled like pure silver.

"The very essence of Argentum Vivum," he said proudly. "Extracted according to the laws of --"

"Yes, yes," snapped Jack. "And the Receipt?"

"I think it is in Paracelsus," said Spitaels, passing him a book. "Perhaps you'd find it, eh, while I, er, _review_ Valentine on --"

Jack did not bother to open the book; it seemed unlikely to be illustrated. "None of your trickery, sir!" he cried, throwing the musty volume down upon Bootstrap's bunk.

"But --"

"You seek," said Jack, looming over the flinching alchemist and pointing an accusing finger, "to disguise your lack of knowledge by desiring _me_ to do your work: d'you think I was born yesterday?"

Peter Spitaels, all pale and sweaty, begged Jack's pardon: had thought only to seek guidance from one who'd studied with the great doctors in Europe: hoped that ...

Jack rolled his eyes. "Come with me," he ordered. "And bring what you need: we'll conduct our work on deck, while there's light. Mr Turner won't care for your stinking and burning in here: and he ain't a moderate man, not at all. And, Mr Spitaels? Not. A. Word."

* * *

He must've slept at last, lulled by the sweet music of wind and water, the quiet bustle of the company on deck, the sound of his _Pearl_ rushing over the water towards that reef, and its ghosts, and its gold.

Waking came slowly, to a soft warm murmur. "Jack? Wake up, Jack: time for your medicine."

Even the sound of Shaftoe's voice was sufficient reminder of the Malady which afflicted Jack. He groaned, and opened his eyes.

There was less light in the cabin now: must be dusk. Shaftoe was leaning over him with a smile that Jack categorised, with some surprise, as triumphant.

"You an' Mr Spitaels brewed me up somethin' tasty, then?" he said.

"Aye," said Jack: and from the shadows by the door came another murmured assent.

"Do step forward, sir," said Shaftoe (rather too loudly for Jack's liking) and tell the Captain of this Cure of yours." And, more quietly to Jack, "We told the boys it was for your stomach, Jack: something to get rid of the gripe, eh?"

"Very good, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack. "Let's have it, then."

"The treatment," said Spitaels, stepping forward into the cabin and steadying himself, quite unnecessarily, against a beam, "is _tripartite_ : which is to say --"

"Yes, yes: in three parts," said Jack testily.

"First, a pill, composed of --"

Jack waggled his hand. "Spare me the details, Mr Spitaels. I really don't think I want to know."

"As you will, Captain," said Spitaels sulkily. He profferred a tarry lump, easily the size of Jack's thumbnail. Jack eased himself upright -- Christ, he ached -- and accepted it gingerly.

"Here," said Shaftoe, handing him a flask. 'Twas the good rum, the stuff he'd had from Jeb Parsons: _that_ helped wash down the bolus, though it was salty and metallic and burned a descending trail through Jack's gullet.

"Lovely," he declared. "What's next, gents?"

"The bath of the dragon," intoned Spitaels, "and then this ointment, to be administered --"

"Nasty bruise you've got there, mate," Jack remarked. He hadn't thought anything could further impair Spitaels' phizz, but here was proof of his lack of imagination. The man's pimpled nose was swollen, and his left eye puffed and reddened.

Spitaels opened his mouth, but Shaftoe said quickly, "Professional difference, Jack. Now, Mr Spitaels, _I'll_ do any administering needs to be done round here: why don't you go and have a tidy-up 'fore Mr Turner comes off watch, eh?"

All this was conveyed in a markedly cheerful tone: yet Spitaels went blotchy -- apart from his nose -- and he nodded, and murmured an encouraging adieu, and backed out of the door, never taking his eyes from Jack Shaftoe.

An inclination with which Jack could certainly sympathise: yet he did not care for secrets, especially where their subject might be his own person.

"What was all that about?" he demanded.

Shaftoe, evidently more comfortable now that they were alone together, settled himself on the edge of the bunk. "Bloke kept going on about the _bride_ and the _bridegroom_ ," he said, scowling, "and the _fiery bath of love_ , and the _conjunction_ : quite shockingly lewd, he was, and I din't like the way he was looking at me, not at all."

"So ...?"

"So I popped him on the nose," said Shaftoe, all righteous. "Filthy-minded sod. No right to talk of us, you an' me, that way. Though how he found out --"

Jack grinned. "'Tis alchemists' zargon, Jack," he said, "for their secret Transformations. Did Enoch not tell you of it?"

Shaftoe shrugged, and Jack was mesmerised by the movement of his collarbone beneath his skin. "He might've done: I don't recall it."

"But you've produced Mr Spitaels' medicines?" said Jack, dragging the conversation back to the matter at hand before he could become too distracted by Shaftoe's presence. He could feel that black pill working its way through his body, dissolving into his blood: or perhaps that was the rum. But Spitaels had said there was more, hadn't he?

"Aye," said Shaftoe, leaning down out of Jack's sight, and sitting up again with a basin in his hands. "I'm to bathe you with this," he said, unsmiling.

Jack's irritation sparked at such coolness. "You owe me a bath," he argued. "Remember when I washed you, Jack, after ..."

Oh Christ, even the memory of that afternoon -- Jack Shaftoe all dreamy and dazed, demanding Jack with words, and without -- was enough to spark something quite _other_ in Jack's corpus, and he realised that Shaftoe'd been trying to spare him any such thought.

Shaftoe closed his eyes briefly. "How could I forget it?" he demanded. "Though, as a matter of fact, you're wrong, Jack: I've washed you, too. After the reef, I did; though you were, were asleep, and didn't know it."

Jack groaned at the image, and the ensuant sensations, these words provoked. "Mr Shaftoe, I beg you: no more. No more until your medicine's done its work."


	13. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirteen

  


Jack had no desire, no none at all, to cause Jack Sparrow pain; and so he rustled up his most businesslike and coolly efficient manner, and resisted the numerous and varied temptations that were presented to him, viz., the opportunity to let himself drown in Sparrow’s black gaze, the urge to put a hand to his peaky face and run a thumb over his paled lip, the desire to spark up Sparrow’s ready lust with the forthright coquetry that he’d found to come so natural in this man’s presence. No, none of those, for any one of them would doubtless be followed by a squinting wince and a deepening of Sparrow’s pallor; and, Jack feared, this treatment was going to make Jack Sparrow miserable enough, without adding to it further.

“Right,” he said, in the no-nonsense manner that he’d heard Dolores’ sister use on his boys, when he’d popped in, briefly and unwelcomely, to say goodbye before heading off on this latest jaunt. “Take your clothes off, then.”

Sparrow’s mouth twitched at the corners, and Jack could see him fight the urge for flippancy and lose, despite his stated determination to avoid all those flirtatious thoughts. “So much for romance, Mr Shaftoe,” he said; “Ain’t you going to at least-” But that was as far as he got, before the wince came again.

“No,” said Jack flatly, “indeed I am not.”

“All right,” sighed Sparrow, and he hauled himself into a sitting position, pulling his shirt over his head, and then wriggling out of his breeches and drawers.

Forty-odd hours, that was all it’d been since Jack’d last seen Sparrow naked; but those hours had wrought a cruel change. That red mark that’d been seen on his neck was now joined by numerous others, scattered over the delicate skin of Sparrow’s groin and belly. And there, up on the inside of his thigh, a livid yellowy cluster of pustules; another, Jack was sure, half hidden by the hair at the root of his cock.

“Shit,” said Sparrow, looking down at himself, and Jack could only echo him. He felt nauseous, and miserable, and angry beyond belief. Filthy fucking pox! The damn thing would lay dormant and forgotten for so long, just as it did now in Jack’s own blood; and then, with no rhyme nor reason to’t, it’d burst forth with this misery. Though Jack’d never seen such ugly boils on his own person, still he knew that it’d come. It’d come, and worse with it. He’d seen the cankered, rotting creatures drowning their last miserable days with gin, down at the Southwark docks. He’d seen what was coming, now, to Jack Sparrow.

But he made himself say, “It’ll be fine, mate, don’t worry; that Pieter knows what he’s doing.”

“I must say I’m a little surprised that a fellow who _knows what he’s doing_ still managed to earn a smack on the nose,” said Sparrow querulously.

“Ah, the clever ones are always the most annoying,” Jack assured him. “So, I’m to bathe you with this, and he said I was to pay most particular attention to any, ah, marks; so I hope it won’t hurt, but it might.” He wet his cloth, knelt beside the cot and began to wash, starting at Sparrow’s ankles.

The liquid was lukewarm, and slightly viscous, and where it seeped into a bitten quick on his thumb, it burned cruelly. His newly-healed fingerstump flared white-hot, even the skin on the rest of his hands felt stung and raw from its touch, and Sparrow clearly felt it too; he moved restlessly, and said, “What’s this supposed to be? You can’t wash off the fucking pox, you know. Or bloody burn it off, for that matter.”

“He says it’ll prepare the skin for the third part of the treatment; make it ready to, ah, expel the foulness, as I believe he rather charmingly put it.”

“I’ll expel his fucking foulness when I’m feeling better,” muttered Sparrow ungratefully. “Loathsome little toad.”

“I knew you’d secretly be pleased that I smacked him one.”

Sparrow snorted, and Jack concentrated on his task, Lifted and bent Sparrow’s legs, one by one, resisting, resisting the urge to let his fingertips slip from the edge of the cloth, to stroke the sweet skin behind Sparrow’s knees, to squeeze the firm muscles of his calves. Elegant legs, they were; not as long as Jack’s, less knotted with muscle, but curved and hard and perfect in their proportions, and Jack found himself biting his lip, reminding himself that he would not, would NOT, bend and kiss them, would not run his teeth over the hard shield of Sparrow’s knee, feeling the bone’s edge and the skin sliding over it.

But even reminding himself that he would not do those things made him want to do them more, and he hunched over, not wanting Sparrow to see the effect that this was having on Jack’s corpus; ‘twas too perverse, to want to do such delicious, lewd things to this poor racked body.

Apparently this effort at hiding his feelings was to no avail, for here came the wincing and the shifting again, and Sparrow snapped, “Give it to me, man, I think I can manage to wipe a bloody cloth over myself.” He grabbed the rag from Jack’s hand, and for a second a wave of irritation swooped through Jack—who the hell did Jack Sparrow think he was, to talk to Jack that way, when he was doing nothing save trying to help!—and he opened his mouth to snap back, scowling fit to match Sparrow’s own frown. But no words came out. The pain was too clear in Sparrow’s face; the contrast between this, and that gentle cleansing after Jack’s own injury (oh, the heat and swirly gorgeous lust of that sweet hour!) was too marked and ugly.

Jack released his grip on the cloth and muttered, “Probably the best plan.” He slapped Sparrow on the thigh in a matey sort of a way and stood, wandering over to the window, waiting for his erection to subside while Sparrow rubbed furiously at himself. This lasted only a matter of moments before there came a hissing yowl, and there was Jack Sparrow, teeth bared and eyes squeezed tight shut, having just bathed one of those scarlet sores.

“Bit tender?” enquired Jack, attempting to find a happy medium between overly solicitous and brutally uncaring.

“I don’t know about _love_ , but it’s the fiery bath of fucking _something_ ,” squeezed out Sparrow.

“The dragon,” said Jack helpfully, “us Alchemists apparently call it the bath of the dragon. Are you sure you don’t want me to—”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to finish that - I need some other things for the third part of this. Back in a moment,” said Jack, and fled the cabin, rather than overhear the rest of the procedure.

*

Jack lay back, finally, his entire skin pulsing and throbbing and some parts of it far more than others; Jesus Christ, that’d been unpleasant. And anything that nasty had to be at least a little bit efficacious, surely; if anything _could_ simply wash off the pox, that concoction might be it. He felt as though he’d scoured himself with that potion of Enoch’s that’d eaten the flesh off Jack Shaftoe’s poor desiccated finger weeks ago.

And what came next, pray tell? Spitaels had talked of ointment, which didn’t sound too dire; Shaftoe’d not been at all specific, when he muttered about _other things_ , and disappeared so precipitously. Jack could hardly blame him for that. He reached down between his legs, gingerly touching those horrid boils, and curling his lip; he was vile, diseased and vile. He’d sported pox-marks before, had had more than a few bouts that were hard to hide. But it’d never been this fierce, never made him feel this feeble, never poisoned his sleep or mortified his flesh this way.

Jack Sparrow’d always been preeningly proud of his strong, whippety body, and the effect it seemed to have on women and men alike. Oh, he wasn’t overly tall, or overly strong; he’d never have a great broad chest like John Burton, or wide square shoulders like glorious Jack Shaftoe. But he knew himself to be well-knit, clean of line and proportion, nicely muscled; and his skin had never peeled, or spotted, or burned, or leathered up like so many other men’s did. Jack had basically always _liked_ the corpus he inhabited, and in the last few weeks, that appreciation had doubled, as he’d seen it reflected in Shaftoe’s eager eyes, felt it in the tremble of Shaftoe’s fingertips as he touched Jack with such worshipful glee.

And now, now, out of nowhere, this body was rotting and oozing, and Jack wanted to hammer at the inside of his skull, to howl _let me out!_ , to shriek every foul word he knew at whatever vengeful deity had inflicted this upon him. He slammed a clenched fist into the mattress, and then (when that proved entirely ineffectual as a catharsis) into the bulkhead. Twice; and then heard running footsteps, and Jack Shaftoe burst through the door, a great bundle of—were those _blankets?_ —under his arm.

“Jack? Is something wrong?”

“Why, yes; I am vilely ill with the pox,” said Jack sarcastically, hiding the warm feeling that was kindled in him by Shaftoe’s panicked expression. “Apart from which, no, everything is just dandy.”

Shaftoe looked down and smirked, gratifyingly.

“I should tell you, though,” Jack said, “I’m close to fevery, and I can’t think of anything less appealing right now than that armful of wool you’re sporting.”

“Well, good; for young Pieter says that the aim of this exercise is to generate _heat_ , and I daresay it matters not whether it’s sourced internally or externally.”

“Oh, Christ, not a sweating treatment,” groaned Jack. He’d taken a cure in a tiny, stinking sweat-box full of pustulous fellow-sufferers once in Stabroek. Well, that was an exaggeration; he’d taken about half an hour of a thirty day cure, and then absconded as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Not a traditional one,” said Shaftoe, slipping back into that forceful nursemaid tone of voice that was clearly going to brook no argument. “First, we apply this poultice, paying particular attention to the, ah, the visible signs, and then we wrap you up. And the poultice, he says, or Valentine says, or some terrifically learned fellow says—I’d stopped listening by then to be honest with you—anyway, it acts to speed the action of the sweating, and leach the poisons from you.” He dumped the blankets on the floor, and picked up a jar full of some black, faintly metallic clay. “Here. This.”

Jack heaved a great sigh, and stared up at Jack Shaftoe. He was terribly tempted to tell him to bugger off; he was still stinging and sore all over, and he didn’t want Jack Shaftoe to see any more of this. But Shaftoe looked at him with such optimism, such affection… and oh, look at him there, straight-limbed and straw-headed and strong-jawed and everything that Jack could imagine ever wanting. If he were well again… oh, then, he could surely make Shaftoe happy again. Make Shaftoe grin, and writhe, and gasp, and shout.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

*

It was dark, and close, and Jack was drenched in sweat and could not sleep. Still, he told himself, this was a good thing; for the heat of his own body, pressed up close against the prickly, itchy woollen cocoon that housed Jack Sparrow, must surely be aiding this process.

Sparrow slept now, though it’d taken some hours after the application of that thick black paste. This time Sparrow’d let Jack help; they’d both applied it, like children painting with mud, Sparrow writing his name (he claimed) upon his thighs, and Jack drawing stick men on Sparrow’s belly. (If the figures’ hands touched, that was but a slip of his finger, and of no import.) It’d been simple foolery, a nonsense, an entertainment; and though, on other days, it would’ve doubtless turned to a game of gentle touch and tease, and that in turn led to another game entirely, this time neither of them let that occur. They’d merely added more and more of the salve, till the letters and images were obliterated by glittery muck; then Jack’d bid Sparrow turn, and smeared it over his back, and over his buttocks, and down the backs of his thighs. Had wrapped him, mummy-like, in a sheet, and then a blanket, and another, and another, and another. Had kissed him, chaste and serious, and bade him sleep.

Sparrow’s face, now, was invisible in the blackness; before he’d snuffed the lanthorn, Jack’d seen it glistening gold with sweat, but at least he slept.

Jack heard footsteps, which was unsurprising; the ship was never entirely asleep, and steps were a normal part of the night. But these were coming closer; and they stopped, outside Jack Sparrow’s cabin door.

Jack slid a foot to the floor, lifted his arm gently from the blanketed form, and eased himself upright. He reached the door just as a low voice outside it asked: “Jack? You awake?”


	14. A Second Opinion, Chapter Fourteen

  
  
Bootstrap. Bloody Bill bloody Turner. _Midnight_ , and he couldn't stop pestering ...

Jack padded softly across the floor. "Ssssh!" he hissed against the door. "He's asleep!": though, judging by the loud groan behind him, this was no longer strictly true.

"But --" said Bootstrap from outside; then seemed to check himself.

"Stay there," said Jack. "With you in a moment."

He'd gone to bed wearing his drawers -- no point in giving Sparrow anything to look at, not in his current state; it'd be cruel -- and could thus, with a generous amount of latitude, be described as 'decent'. This was a damned pirate ship, anyway: he'd lay Bill'd seen worse.

Jack glanced back at where Sparrow lay, an indistinct twitching heap upon their bed, moaning more softly now. Better not let Bill see his captain so reduced: bad for morale. Jack opened the door a little and slipped through, closing it quietly behind him and leaning against the black wood for good measure.

_Remember when you pushed SparrowJack up 'gainst that same-same door and took what you wanted and give it him too!_ the Imp whispered gleefully into Jack's ear.

"This _ain't_ the time," muttered Jack between his teeth: loud enough, unfortunately, for Bill -- a dark shape 'twixt Jack and the faint moonlit glow from the hatch for'ard -- draw breath to start complaining again.

"Sorry, mate," placated Jack. He was really not in the mood to deal with Bill Turner right now. "Just ... talking to meself. What's amiss?"

"It's Martingale," said Bill. "Bit of a disagreement 'tween him and Stone: something to do with their shore leave, I reckon, some unfinished business. Don't 'spose you'd know anything about that, Mr Shaftoe?"

"We split up," said Jack, all wide-eyed innocence despite the darkness, and despite the belated realisation that he was (for a change) telling the truth. "No idea what they got up to, unsupervised."

"Well, Martingale I'd expect it of," said Bill, sighing. "Young idiot. But Stone's right put out about something: gave Martingale a bloody nose, over nothing that anyone'll say they saw. Next thing, Martingale's at him with a knife. Had to lock 'em both up: and Jack Sparrow, now, he don't like that sort of business on board his _Pearl_."

"Yes, yes," said Jack testily. "D'you think I was born yesterday?"

"Course not, Jack," said Bill. Jack could hear his grin. "But I thought I'd better let the captain know, get it all sorted 'fore they wake up sober an' have a chance to think it through."

"Night in the brig'll do 'em both good," said Jack. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Turner: I was, as it happens, _asleep_ : and so was your captain."

"He din't sound too good jus' now," said Bill, moving closer in the dark. "You sure you ain't done away with him in the night, Jack?" He chuckled.

"He wouldn't be making a noise if I had, eh?" snapped Jack, forgetting to keep his voice down. "Spitaels gave him some medicine for the, the gripe: he's just sweating the last of it out. I --

"Mr Turner!" came the call, low but clear, from within.

_Oh fuck_ , thought Jack.

"Captain?" said Bill, trying to get at the door without actually pushing Jack out of the way. Jack, feeling remarkably underdressed all of a sudden, set his hand on Bill's arm.

"Leave it, Bill," he murmured. "He's not --"

"Mr Turner!" Sparrow called again. He sounded awake, alert, and annoyed: and Bill, habituated by years of obedience, was obviously determined to answer the summons. What the hell, thought Jack: it's Jack Sparrow's ship, Jack Sparrow's men. P'rhaps the medicine's working. He let Bill push the door open, and step into the dark cabin.

"D'you mind striking a light, Mr Shaftoe?" said Bill over his shoulder.

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Jack. "I do. It's the middle of the night, mate. Don't need the light to talk, eh?" Thinking that if Sparrow looked as rough as he'd looked earlier, Bill would throw a fit.

"No light," confirmed Sparrow. "M' head hurts. What's up, Bill?"

"Martingale and Stone was fighting," said Bill into the dark room.

"What for?" said Sparrow, rather muffled. Jack wanted to go to him, but he stayed where he was, behind Bill, ready to kick him out if need be. The cabin was hot -- poor Jack Sparrow must be swimming in sweat, under all those blankets -- and there was a fetid, sour smell. Jack hoped it was the sickness coming out.

"Dunno," said Bill Turner. "Knives, though. I locked 'em up, Captain, like you always do: but what d'you want --"

"String 'em up," Sparrow interrupted.

Jack's heart plummetted at the words. _String 'em up_? That wasn't Jack Sparrow, not his Jack: oh, ruthless enough with an enemy, with Don Fuckin' Esteban, but not Martingale, not Stone ...

Bill essayed a laugh, though it did not sound very natural. "Bit much, ain't it, captain?"

"Only way," came Sparrow's voice from the bed. "Keeps the rest of 'em in line. First light: yard-arm: short drop an' a sudden stop. _You_ know."

"Jack," said Bill helplessly. "This ain't ..."

"It's the medicine," murmured Jack, leaning close t'wards Bill in the hope that Sparrow wouldn't hear him. "Given him a funny turn, I reckon."

"Yard-arm, first light," Sparrow reiterated crossly. Now that Jack thought about it, his voice sounded odd, all choked and phlegmy. A sliver of doubt edged its way into Jack's mind. Oh, anything, anything for a cure, anything to bring Jack Sparrow back to glorious glowing life and clear this foul contagious ruin from him, inside and out: but what if, what if ...

"Not for a first offense, Captain," said Bill sternly. "An' you know Stone's been a steady bloke 'til now: no knowing what's got into him, but I'll lay he'll be sorry as anything in the morning. An' Martingale's a good boy. Hear 'em out tomorrow, eh?"

"Hanging," said Sparrow, and coughed liquidly. "Flogging."

"Aye, we can flog 'em," said Bill, a mite too eagerly for Jack's taste. His back itched at the thought of it.

"Right, well, glad that's settled then," he said, pushing the door behind him open. "C'mon, Bill."

There was a plaintive groan from the bed.

"Back in a tick," said Jack. "Just goin' for, for a piss." And, shutting the door behind them both, he caught Bill's arm in an iron grip and propelled him t'wards the hatch.

"Not a word of this, right?" he said, low and nasty, against the other man's ear.

Bill twisted free, and Jack braced himself for a blow: but it did not come. "The medicine, eh?" said Bill.

"Reckon so," said Jack. "Powerful stuff, that concoction of Spitaels's."

"It'd better bloody do its job," said Bill. "That ain't ..."

"I know," said Jack. "I know."

* * *

Why wouldn't they just let him sleep? Not that the dreams were up to his usual standard -- decidedly unenjoyable, featuring as they did neither charming company nor hidden treasures, but rather mutiny and battle and betrayal -- but oooh, he ached with tiredness. Why did they have to keep coming and pestering him? And arguing with him? He was still Captain, wasn't he? No argument required, then.

Truth be told, he didn't feel very captainly at the moment. Foully hot, it was, and he could feel Pieter Spitaels' evil brew working its way into each and every chancre on his body, not to mention a few that hadn't been there, he'd've sworn to it, when Jack Shaftoe'd daubed him with that glittery mud earlier.

All very well for Shaftoe, with _no no don't think about_ his strong broad hands, oddly gentle for a man of such martial habits, washing him down and slathering him with mud and, and just _being_ there, whole and hale and Shaftoe: a walking, speaking, breathing reminder of Jack's lost vigour. All very well for Shaftoe to slip outside with Bill and stand there whispering, the two of 'em _gossipping_ about him while he lay swaddled in every single blanket that the company possessed. Swaddled and still, like some exotic new torture: wrapped up like a moth in a cocoon, itching like fuck where that black mud cracked and dried and oozed on his sweaty skin. Stinking like a beast -- oh, what he wouldn't give to dive into the cool dark sea and let it wash everything away! -- and half-choking on his own spit, and his lungs rising up through his throat to suffocate him, and underneath it all the prickle and burn and sear of the bloody, fucking, ruinous Pox, taking him right cruelly just when he'd thought it gone and forgotten.

Bill'd been asking him about someone; who'd it been? One of the men taking it on himself to misbehave while Jack's back was turned, while he lay helpless down here in the dark. Treacherous bastards! For all he knew 'twas full-blown mutiny up there in the light, in the sunlight and the cool breeze. Bill wouldn't let that happen, now would he? But Bill and Jack Shaftoe ...

Jack swore out loud, though it emerged as more of a cough. Bill he was sure of, wasn't he? Bill, as sound as Jack's right arm? (Though come to think of it, his arms hurt just as much as the rest of his corpus.) And Jack Shaftoe: _he'd_ not let Jack down, not after all the care and comradeship and _sentiment_ he'd lavished on Jack lately.

Jack wriggled fretfully in his oozy blankets. Where the fuck was Mr Shaftoe now? Where was his cool hand, his calm voice? Hadn't he said something about just stepping out for a moment? But that'd been hours ago, hours and hours. Hours down here in the hot dark. Hours alone. Was he in the brig? Someone'd said 'the brig', someone'd said 'best place': but wouldn't Shaftoe come and get him out?

The door creaked open, creaked on the same note as his cabin door: there was a cool draught blowing over Jack's face, and he sighed a little at the relief of it.

"Jack?" said Shaftoe from the darkness.

"Aye," said Jack thickly.

"How're you feeling?"

"Fuckin' vile," said Jack: and would've said more beside, but the act of speaking aloud made his stomach turn, and he swallowed down a volcano of bile. Must be in the brig: his cabin never smelt so foul.

"'Tis the sickness coming out," said Jack Shaftoe heartily, from close by. Jack thought he might be sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough to reach if Jack could've moved. "You remember, Jack: Pieter Spitaels' Preparations. All to drive out the Pox and make you well again. And then, I promise you, I'll take the cure too; though you don't have to look after me, Jack, not if you'd rather not. You can set me ashore somewhere and come back for me when I'm better."

"No need for that," Jack tried to say, but only managed a surly "No" before he started to cough.

Shaftoe's arm went around his shoulders -- not that he could feel it through these damp blankets -- and he leaned forward, gasping and retching, until the fit had passed.

"You're trying to leave _me_ behind," he said to Shaftoe, oddly untroubled by the prospect. "That's what --"

"I ain't leaving you anywhere, Jack: ain't you realised it yet?" said Shaftoe. "This is your ship, an' your crew; an' I'm staying here by your side. This ain't goin' to last, Jack: this is the fever, the fire inside, all that heat you're generating from the, the bath of fiery love, an' your own body's heat too, drivin' it all out ..."

Shaftoe's voice, urgent at first but gentler as he went on, was blurring, becoming indistinct as though, there in the dark close cabin, the light was fading at the end of the day. Jack knew Shaftoe's face well enough, now, that he did not need light to see him; but hearing him, hearing his words, was another matter, and he strained to understand each syllable.

"Don't mumble," he said; thought he said, but couldn't hear his own words any too well.

Jack Shaftoe's lips, touching his forehead, felt very cold. Was he making his farewells? Was he ...


	15. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Fifteen

  


It wasn’t the sound of the door opening that woke Pieter; he was acclimatising, already, to the ship’s constant cacophony of groaning, creaking, thrumming, and cracking. Rather, it was the weighty silence that came after, and then the low but disgusted mutter of _Christ al-bloody-mighty_.

He flinched inwardly, but realised within a sleepy second or two that it wasn’t the voice of that monstrous Shaftoe; still, he feigned sleep, and did not move as Bill Turner picked his way across the detritus, hissing and cursing as his toes discovered items that his eyes had not, and hauled himself up into the topmost bunk, two feet above Pieter’s head.

After several tosses, turns, yawns and weary sighs, Turner’s breathing slowed and became a gentle snoring, and Pieter opened his eyes. There was not much to see when he did, for the night had barely begun to lighten, and they were an hour or more away from dawn, yet. He could just make out the blocky silhouettes of all his books and boxes, piled up on the floor and table, and he supposed it _was_ a trifle cluttered; but what did these people expect? They wanted a physician, did they not? They wanted him to perform miracles, and to make do with whatever he happened to have to hand, and what’s more, to do it from within a tiny, shadowy box of a cabin that he was forced to share with a great gangling irritable _pirate_ ; and it could not be done without a certain amount of equipment, certain resources. It was as simple as that.

None of Pieter’s studies, not with the Fathers when he was small, not with his master when he was a prentice, not by himself since the death of that crazy old man, had prepared himself for this sort of… of _pressure_. And on top of all that, he must contend with Jack Shaftoe!

He licked away the oily sweat that popped out on his upper lip at the mere thought of that man, and his nose throbbed in recall. Madman. Madman with a _knife_. Madman with a knife making impossible demands; but Pieter would manage, yes, he would.

In fact, he would do more than manage, he reassured himself. He would produce a miracle, and Jack Shaftoe would not carry out his threats, but would look upon Pieter Spitaels with admiration and awe. Would carry tales of his brilliance back to London (the most foully poxed city on earth, some said) and then, oh then, Pieter would be able to return to Europe, with his cure, and be fêted, be sought out by all those rich libertines and their licentious ladies; would be paid in good coin by his patients and (even better) respected by his peers… and one of those beautiful ladies, cruelly infected by some blackguard though it was the last thing she deserved, would be so very very grateful for Pieter’s intervention, for his restoration of her health and life, that she would be able to look past his unfortunate exterior, would see the shining glory of his mind and the passionate depths of his heart, and she would…

It was a happy dream, very happy, and, rocked by the sea and soothed by Turner’s gentle rhythmic snores, Pieter drifted in and out of mazy, concupiscent half-sleep as the cabin filled slowly with grey light.

Drifted, until the door was flung rudely open, crashing into the corner of Pieter’s largest travelling-chest. He lurched up in alarm, and could hear Turner doing the same, and mumbling “What--?” But Pieter could see _what_ , and he scrambled to the corner of his bunk, trying futilely to evade Jack Shaftoe’s long arm, which reached in and grabbed him by the hair.

“Sorry, Bill,” said Shaftoe grimly, “I need your mate here.”

Turner made a sleepy snorting noise and clearly cared nothing for Pieter’s fate. “Keep ‘im,” he muttered, as Pieter was hauled, protesting, to his feet. “Don’t bother to bring ‘im back.”

Shaftoe dragged Pieter from the cabin, shutting the door on Turner, and then, with terrifying speed, he shoved Pieter up against the wall and pinned him to it with a forearm across his throat. He loomed close, and Pieter got a good look at him in the dim morning light; a look that sent bolts of shuddery fear all through him. Jack Shaftoe had clearly slept little, and was all awry, shirtless and dishevelled and rankly sweaty, and horridly angry, angry to the point of shaking. Pieter struggled briefly, but stopped when the pressure on his throat threatened to rob him of breath, and he must listen, he must, what was this lunatick hissing at him?

“—done to him, you crazy little bastard, what? I swear he’s near to death, your fucking _cure_ ’s about killed him, and I tell you now, Pieter Spitaels, his death will be your death, or did you not understand me before?”

“It’s all part of the process I assure you,” Pieter gabbled, essaying professional calm, though it didn’t emerge that way, at all. “The impurities must be purged--”

“I’ll show you fucking _purged_ ,” promised Jack Shaftoe, his eyes blazing, and he yanked Pieter away from the wall, grabbing the back of his shirt in one hand and twisting an arm behind his back with the other, and marched him down to Jack Sparrow’s cabin.

*

A lesser man, Pieter told himself, would’ve vomited; but he was a physician, a chirurgeon, and none of these bodily matters troubled him unduly. Disappointingly, his stomach was not of the same hardy opinion, and he had to fight down the rising of his gorge as he stood there in Jack Sparrow’s cabin, surveying the scene.

There were blankets, everywhere, covered in smears of black ointment, and the sourest smell of sweat and sick. A large bucket beside the cot was clearly the source of that odour. Upon the cot, shaking and filthy, his skin still covered by the medicinal paste, lay some wretched shade of Jack Sparrow; the only parts of him that recalled the man Pieter had met two days ago were the beads in his hair. He was pale under the salve, his eyes closed, and a dreadful wet rattle issued from his half-open mouth. That was the worst of it, perhaps; that noise.

Shaftoe had at least let go of Pieter when they entered the room, though Pieter’s shoulder still throbbed and wailed from the cruel twist that’d been inflicted upon it. Shaftoe’d gone straight to Sparrow’s side, knelt down and gently pushed the hair from his face, and leant close to murmur something in his ear.

There. It was that moment there, right there, that confirmed to Pieter that these two men were not mere shipmates. ‘Twas little wonder that this contagion had become so strong, really, if Jack Sparrow was such a creature; if he would take a man, a wild dangerous crazed man like Jack Shaftoe, to his bed, and let him—oh, it was perfectly disgusting.

“Well?” said Pieter, emboldened by this moment of Medical Revelation. “Is this not as I explained? That he would have to sweat out the poisons? You know this, Mr Shaftoe; you know it is the only valid approach to the problem. I’m sorry that it’s not an _attractive_ enough cure for you; the Great Pox is not an _attractive_ disease.”

Ooh, he was regretting that already, no matter how good it’d felt to say; the look on Jack Shaftoe’s face threatened the most hideous retribution, and Pieter felt a sudden and terrible need to empty his bowels. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” growled Shaftoe, “unless you’re going to tell me what’s wrong with him, and how we can fix it.”

“Well, obviously, the cure is not an easy one,” stammered Pieter, wilting under that gaze. “It’s no simple matter to extract such a foulness.”

“Fuck the _foulness_ , can’t you see it’s extracting the damn _life_ out of him? He can hardly breathe!”

“You said you wanted a quick cure,” said Pieter defensively. “A quick cure or a gentle, you can’t have both.” But he was starting to fear that perhaps, just perhaps, he’d been a little… overzealous, with the tripartite approach. It’d sounded so good, in theory. In his head. If any one of those cures had efficacy on its own, surely three of them would be three times as effective? He bit his lip. It was an impossible position he was in; Jack Shaftoe would not take no for an answer, nor offer his own advice or wisdom on the matter, and yet, yet! Neither would he accept Pieter’s best efforts!

Pieter could see nothing on his horizon but broken bones. It made him more than a little querulous.

“Paracelsus says,” he began, but Shaftoe interrupted him, leaping up and shoving a long dirty finger in his face.

“I don’t give a monkey’s uncle for Para-bloody-celsus! Just tell me, do you know what’s done this to him, or don’t you, you useless little worm?”

Pieter’s gut twisted in fear and he backed away. “It’s the quicksilver,” he said, and his voice came out in a dreadful squeak. “ _Paracelsus_ tells us so. It fights the body, just as it fights the pox; and if the body is stronger than the contagion, then the patient will survive. But if the reverse is true…”

The raging anguish on Jack Shaftoe’s face stopped the words in his throat.

“I saw you put the silver in the bolus, and in the ointment,” said Shaftoe. The words tripped over one another, speeding and desperate. “And then I saw you change your mind, and double it. _How much have you given him?_ ”

“You wanted a quick cure,” Pieter said, faint with fear.

“Jesus, he’s still covered in it!” cried Shaftoe, with a crashing stamp of his foot, and he turned away, took a step back towards Sparrow. Relief flooded through Pieter; then was suddenly replaced by a blinding surge of pain as Jack Shaftoe struck him, a violent backhander to his cheekbone, though he did not even turn to see the effect of his blow. Pieter cried out and staggered back against the bulkhead as Shaftoe fell to his knees beside his captain and began scraping off the ointment with his fingers, with the sheets, with anything he could find.

“Get me warm water and clean linen, _now_ ,” Shaftoe flung over his shoulder. “And make it fast, or by the Devil, I swear you won’t see another dawn, Pieter Spitaels.”

“I--”

“Go!” roared Shaftoe, and he suddenly flung a half-empty rum bottle at Pieter, who ducked; the bottle smashed on the wall above his head, and glass-shards and liquid rained down upon him. Sparrow did not move, seemed deaf to all the commotion. But Shaftoe made a move as if he would rise, and Pieter fled that hellhole of a cabin as fast as he possibly could.

*

He’d delivered the sheets from his own bed, and had to hunt through the dark innards of that loathsome vessel for a good ten minutes, heart pounding, before he found a waterbarrel in the galley. The fire was not lit, and there was no-one about save a half-comatose dwarf who bared his teeth, though he did not open his eyes. Pieter dared not risk Shaftoe’s greater wrath by tarrying with fire, nor with angry midgets, so he filled a rope-handled bucket himself and headed back to the cabin, water slopping over his running feet.

Sparrow’s state appeared no different (though he was somewhat cleaner), and Shaftoe had spoken just five scowling words: “It’s cold”, as he dunked a torn strip of Pieter’s sheet into the bucket, and then, as soon as Pieter opened his mouth to explain, “Just fuck off”, which Pieter had done with the greatest and most willing alacrity.

Now, he was huddling in the lee of the gunwale, up towards the bow, as the ship came to life for the day, her motley crew appearing in ones and twos and being chivvied into action. He picked pieces of glass out of his hair, and ignored the pirates, and they (thankfully) ignored him right back. His stomach was lurching queasily, his thoughts spiralling. Sparrow had, indeed, seemed on death’s doorstep. Oh, the smell of it; vile, simply vile. Thank Heaven that he himself had never fallen prey to the salacious urges that had resulted in Sparrow’s horrible punishment. The suffering!

But all the wisest writers advised that the cure would be hard; how could it be anything else, to drive out such filth from the body? The patient must be scourged, body and soul, those were the simple facts of the matter. It was not _his_ fault that Jack Sparrow had contaminated himself to such a dreadful degree. _He_ didn’t deserve to be struck, to be treated with such vicious disdain, by that despicable Jack Shaftoe. This voyage was turning into a nightmare, and it had better be worth it. He’d better be given the knowledge he sought, better discover this precious receipt for the Greek Fire, or… or…

Or Jack Shaftoe would find that Pieter Spitaels might not be able to fight with his fists, like an animal; but he could be -- _would_ be -- a dangerous adversary nonetheless.


	16. A Second Opinion, Chapter Sixteen

  
  
"What d'you mean, he's asleep? He's been asleep all bloody night. Wake him up!"

Jack glared right back at Bill, and shifted as Bill made a lunge for the door-latch.

"No. He's not well. He's tired."

He could see the exasperation in the clench of Bill's jaw, hear it in the carefully pronounced words: "I know, Jack. But he can't go ordering floggings and then lurk down here, _resting_ , while they're carried out. It's not on, and the men won't stand for it. I won't bloody stand for it. If he's not up there in ten minutes, then..."

"Then _what_?" demanded Jack testily, partly resentful of this annoying interruption when things were so desperate on the other side of that door, and partly from pure curiosity as to what it was that Bill Turner thought he was going to do, or not do, as the case might be.

"Then," Turner said, "he'll find out what happens to captains who _don't_."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean? Don't what?"

"Don't captain," said Bill in a tone of disgust.

"Give him a bloody break," Jack said, and rubbed a hand over his tired face. "He's not well."

"Well enough to spend all hours crashing about down here with you," came the reply. "D'you think I don't hear all that hollering? D'you think we want to hear every crazy bloody thing the two of you decide to do to one another?"

The injustice of this (not to mention the sheer embarrassment factor) stang, and Jack took a step forward, his fists clenching involuntarily at his sides. Bill held up a hand, though it wasn't clear whether he did so in warning or in apology. Jack, frankly, was too tired after the night he'd had to take on a fight with Bill Turner, so he decided to assume the latter. "'Twasn't that," he said, sullenly. "'Twas a, a, a medical matter."

"Well, I'm not surprised, given your choice of physician, that there are disagreements to be had over his treatment plan," said Bill with a curl of his lip.

Finally, thought Jack, something we can agree on. "Nasty, ain't he," he said.

Turner nodded. "Hiding up top at the moment... you should see what he's done to my cabin."

"Don't surprise me, having seen his abode."

"Surprised Jack Sparrow'll have owt to do with 'im," said Bootstrap. "Never should've let Enoch go."

"With you there," said Jack, "but -- wait!"

For Bill Turner, tiring of this petty quibbling outside his captain's cabin door, had sidled round until he could reach behind Jack's back and lift the latch. Jack, too sluggish with sleeplessness to prevent him, wrenched Bill's hand from the door, and tried to shove him back: but Bill was determined, and he aimed a blow at Jack Shaftoe that made Jack flinch. The momentum carried Bill forward over the threshold, Jack still twisting his arm and maligning his ancestors even as Bill began to frame an apology for their abrupt arrival.

"Captain, I'm -- Christ, what's that stench?"

Jack, still damning himself for letting bloody Bootstrap past his guard, rolled his eyes. "Told you he was ill, din't I?" he said.

"All right, all right," said Turner, tugging his arm free of Jack's restraining grip and stepping forward, the better to see Jack Sparrow.

Bill's face twisted with horror and pity, and Jack couldn't blame him, not at all. Sparrow lay there, still, and near as silent, as a corpse. At least that dreadful rattle had lessened after Jack'd scraped off flakes and lumps of drying mud. He'd tenderly cleaned every trace of the foul mess from Sparrow's limp body, willing down every trace of desire along with the occasional surge of nausea; but Sparrow's skin was dull and grey, and he did not rouse at Jack's touch.

"This ain't ill," growled Turner. "This is _poison_." Quick as thought, he'd rounded on Jack. "You poisoned him, you --!"

"Easy, Bill, easy," Jack managed, hands up to fend off his assailant. "It's a _medical_ \--"

"The fuck it is!" cried Bill, launching himself at Jack and backing him against the bulkhead with sheer rageful weight. "What've you _done_ to him?"

Jack Shaftoe had had enough of this. He got a hand between them and jabbed, quick and nasty, at Bill's groin. Once Bill had sworn and gasped and stopped trying to shove Jack bodily into the next cabin, Jack got him by the shoulder and held him at arm's length.

"What I've done," he said, low and furious, "is what none of _you_ , none of his bloody crew, thought to do for him. Or din't you know your captain's being eaten up by the bloody Pox, eh? D'you think it'd go away of its own accord?"

"Always has before," said Bill truculently. "Always --"

"Well, this was a bad bout," said Jack, slightly more calmly. "And Jack Sparrow reckoned he'd rather take the Cure, as proffered -- to him, mind, without my being involved in any way -- by that verminous little shit of an Alchemist."

"Professional difference?" enquired Bill.

For answer, Jack waved a hand (the other still clamped on Bill's shoulder) at the bed.

Bill looked over at where Sparrow lay, breath rattling again -- though not as grimly as before, it seemed to Jack -- and his poor face all mottled and bruised. Jack Sparrow, so full of life, reduced to this husk: it wrenched Jack's heart to see it, though he'd observed the agonising slow decline as he'd watched and prayed all night at Sparrow's side, and he could see from Bill's expression that it shook him, too.

"Oh, Christ," Bill said. "What'll we tell the boys?"

"Nothing," said Jack emphatically. "Nothing: or they'll skin Spitaels alive -- not that that'd be a bad thing, if you ask me -- and kill Jack with kindness."

"But what about Martingale, and Stone? Can't just leave 'em to fester in the brig 'til Jack's himself again."

Bill's common sense, always overabundant, was clearly reasserting itself. Jack deemed it safe to let go of him. "Time for a bit of clemency, I reckon," he suggested. "A week on galley duty, or something. _I_ don't know, mate."

" _Clemency_? They're _pirates_ , mate, not bloody gentry," Bill pointed out. "And their captain, there, he's a pirate too. In case you'd forgotten, what with all your --"

Came a groan from the bed: both men's heads swivelled hopefully.

Sparrow's lips were moving, though nothing as coherent as speech emerged. Jack pushed past Bootstrap and hurried to the bedside, though not with such haste that he forgot that brimming sick-basin. He dropped to his knees on the dirty carpet, and laid his hand gently over Sparrow's. Was that _blood_ , there on his neck where that nasty chancre ( _a scratch, a rope-burn_ ) had marked his skin?

"Jack?" he said.

Sparrow's head turned, ever so slightly, on the pillow. He mumbled something, and Jack leaned closer. Never mind Bootstrap, gawping at the two of 'em: given the remarkable acoustic properties of the _Pearl_ 's black timbers, he'd surely heard worse.

"Can't hear you, mate."

"Dead," said Sparrow quite clearly, and immediately began to choke and splutter.

Jack propped him up; held a filthy rag (formerly his own second-best shirt) to Sparrow's mouth as he spat; held the cup, once the paroxysm was done, so that he could sip rum-laced water. Only when Sparrow was breathing more easily did he say firmly, "You ain't dead, Jack, and I ain't letting you go."

He shot a challenging glance at Bootstrap, expecting disgust or impatience or anger: but Bootstrap was looking at him with ... with approval, that was it.

_Well, there's a thing_ , thought Jack: but he tamped down the brief flare of smugness that this observation brought. He had more important matters to attend.

* * *

Christ, this was Hell, and he was burning up: and if he could just remember _half_ the sins that'd brought him to such a horridly fiery fate, there'd be some comfort to him here at the end of things.

It wasn't a very comfortable end. He was shivering like an urchin in a storm, though every part of him was ablaze. And something nearby stank to high heaven. Jack was very much afraid that it was himself.

There was a voice murmuring in his ear, all dulcet and soothing though rough-edged. Jack's heart trembled, for he had not known Shaftoe, too, was dead and damned. On the bright side (and Jack tried always to look on the bright side) he couldn't think of finer company for the eternal fire. And surely Shaftoe and he had committed some fine sins together: Jack'd remember 'em soon, just as soon as this blazing raging ache took its teeth out of him and let him lie quiet and still.

Oh Christ, he hurt; and the light around was so bright, and red, and wet.

* * *

It was a bright sparkling morning, a fine north-westerly carrying them down to Saint Lucia at a spanking rate. Various of the crew were giving Bill speaking inquisitive looks as he paced the deck. He ignored 'em all. For one thing, his expression might strike fear into their hearts: fear, or concern. For another, he was not in the mood for company at the present time.

What the _hell_ had Jack Sparrow been about, letting that pustulent oaf at him with his messy potions and haphazard gestures? (Bill's knowledge of the Art was sketchy at best -- Shaftoe's handy way with Greek Fire, and a few conjuring-tricks of old Enoch's -- and exposure to Pieter Spitaels' domestic habits had not warmed him t'wards the profession.) Must've been a bad bout indeed, though Bill'd seen Sparrow shake off fevers and blights that would've killed a lesser mortal. Tough as old boots, Jack Sparrow. Which begged the question: had Spitaels meant to harm him?

Had Jack Shaftoe?

Bill shook his head (thereby providing meat for half a dozen arguments: was it the noose for Martingale, then? Was it marooning? Or had the Captain come up with one of his more _inventive_ punishments?) and scowled at the cloudless sky. No, not Shaftoe. There was no side to the man, no falseness nor dishonesty: and down in that dark odoriferous place, Bootstrap had seen Jack Shaftoe's heart on his face. There'd been grief, and horror, and bitter sorrow, and determination. Not enough guilt, in Bootstrap's book: Shaftoe, after all, had _helped_ that little shit poison Jack Sparrow. But it had been inescapably clear that Shaftoe would do whatever he could to bring about Sparrow's swift recovery. If only, Bill thought uncharitably, so that the two of them could go back to their usual depraved activities.

Spitaels was another matter. Bill'd had a look around for him, but only a cursory one. It wasn't as though the bloke could get far. They were miles from land, miles from the nearest port: miles and miles, still, from that bloody reef. Spitaels would be around somewhere, holed up down in the hold or lurking like a rat underneath a pile of sailcloth somewhere. Bill couldn't be arsed to organise a search for him at the moment. And, who knew, the fellow might be of some practical use at some point -- though Bill couldn't, for the life of him, imagine what -- so it'd probably be bad form to serve him for what he'd done to Sparrow.

"Does he know a remedy?" he'd asked Shaftoe, down below, the two of them huddled by the cabin door so as not to disturb their patient.

Shaftoe'd shaken his head. He'd looked exhausted. Under other circumstances, Bill would've told him to get some sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to drive Jack Shaftoe from his self-appointed vigil at Sparrow's bedside. No one save the two of them (and Spitaels: Bill spat over the rail) knew of Sparrow's condition, and no one must discover it.

"The worst of it's past," Shaftoe had claimed. "He's breathing easier."

"He'll get better, then?" Bill had said eagerly.

And Shaftoe had looked him in the eye -- Shaftoe's own blue eyes bleary and bloodshot -- and said, quiet and despairing, "I don't know."

Bill had never seen him so reduced, not through all that circling and sizing-up that he and Sparrow'd been at, not when he'd come back from de Braxas's blazing villa all covered in blood, not even when they'd first encountered him on --

Bill came to a halt. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air to fortify him 'gainst the cabin's noxious airs; then, squaring his shoulders, he went below once more.

Time to assume command. Time to do what needed to be done.


	17. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Seventeen

  


Pieter’s bunkmate, Turner, was proving to be a fellow of some authority on this dreadful tub; he’d been pacing the quarter deck for some time, scowling and talking to no-one; then, all of a sudden, he’d disappeared down the companionway, and Pieter, from his hiding place behind the rope locker, saw the men on deck turn to watch his progress, and then look at one another. Something was happening. But what?

Minutes later Turner re-emerged, two shackled men before him. It was the two that’d been with Shaftoe and Sparrow in Port Royal; the black haired boy, and the other man, the one with that terrible mouthful of decayed teeth. (Pieter’d offered, as they rowed to the ship, to pull them, and would’ve shown the man the two rather good sets of wooden dentures that he’d brought with him, if his offer had been received with even the tiniest sign of gentility or appreciation. As it was, he did not.) As if this was some unspoken signal, the rest of the crew began to descend from the rigging, to emerge from below, to interrupt their various labours and games and to congregate in the ship’s waist, where Turner and the two men stood at the foot of the mainmast. Pieter peered out from his hiding place, the better to watch the proceedings; then regretted it immediately, as Turner’s eye lighted upon him, and he said something to the man next to him, who instantly strode over to Pieter (no point ducking down now, though the temptation was a strong one), grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him over to the murmuring crowd.

“Sir, I must protest,” said Pieter in what he hoped was an aggrieved, yet reasonable tone. “Why do you—”

“Be quiet,” said Turner, and someone behind Pieter cuffed him on the head. Really, this was the most uncivilised place. “Gentlemen,” Turner continued, as blank-faced as if a guest on board were not being assaulted before his eyes, “we’ve two pieces of business that must be dealt with. And normally, Jack would be here; but he’s taken ill, and so it’s down to us.” He glared at Pieter as he said this, and Pieter tried to stand up straight and not to quail, guiltily.

“Firstly, Stone and Martingale,” went on Turner. “You’ve spent a night in the brig, and has it made you decide to be any more forthcoming? Are you ready to tell us what the hell that fight was about, last night?”

Pieter looked over with interest, and saw a purple-red bruise on Martingale’s pale cheekbone; noted a dirty, bloodsoaked rag tied around Stone’s muscular arm. Martingale was looking daggers at Stone still, as though he’d happily knife him again, given the chance; Stone was staring, well, stonily, out to the horizon, and his jaw was set. Neither of them said anything.

“Out with it!” shouted Turner in clear exasperation. “Come on, give me some reason for’t! Jack’s told me he wants you flogged, you fools; and I’m damn close to agreeing with him.”

Pieter noted the murmur that ran around the crew as Turner said this, and diagnosed its tone as one of surprise; although a flogging seemed to Pieter to be a perfectly natural outcome of fighting, here it was apparently an aberration.

After a pause, Martingale muttered sullenly, “It ain’t nothing but a personal argument, Mr Turner. Stone here don’t like the word _no_.”

Stone flushed ruby and he spat, “Seems to me you’re a trifle overfond of the word _yes_ , you filthy little—”

Martingale launched himself at Stone, clumsy with his shackled wrists but willing to try to inflict pain by any means necessary, and the two of them went crashing down to the deck, Stone roaring calumnies and trying to headbutt Martingale into submission, Martingale bringing a knee up to Stone’s groin and making him howl in agonised rage; a great noise rose up from the assembled crew, cries of laughter and shouts of encouragement, and only Turner and two others bothered to step forwards and prise the combatants apart. Turner hauled Martingale to his feet by the back of his shirt, and shook him like a badly behaved puppy.

“Last chance!” he shouted over the din. “Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain him, fucking Stone’s beyond any fucking explanation!” cried Martingale, scarlet with exertion and wrath.

“Chance over,” said Turner, and he shoved the boy down to the deck. “We’ve no room for fools and fighters. You can both leave the ship at the next island we come to.”

Martingale paled. “What, you mean you’re going to--”

“Aye, to leave you there, and you can sort it out between yourselves, damn you.”

Pieter saw an opportunity to improve his relationship with Bill Turner, and said piously into the shocked silence, “An excellent decision, Mr Turner, and clement if I may say so; marooning is a very humane solution to the problem.”

Turner swung around, and started, disconcertingly, to laugh.

“I’m glad you approve of it, Mr Spitaels. For I was just about to add that you’ll be joining them.”

A wash of ice over Pieter’s skin, through his vitals, despite the heat of the sun. What? _What?_ “But -- but -- Jack Shaftoe hit _me_ , I’ve struck no one! Harmed no one!”

“Harmed no one, is it? You’re a damned liar. You poisoned Jack Sparrow,” said Bill Turner, cold and bleak as anything. And every eye on the ship turned to Pieter, boring into him with sharp and sudden hatred.

“I did not!” squeaked Pieter. “I was trying to _cure_ him! I’m a physician! He asked me for help!”

“He only had a bloody gripe,” said Turner implacably, “and now he’s half-dead. That’s a hell of a cure.”

“I think he was a little sicker than _that_ ,” said Pieter, aghast at the situation he was in, and thinking that perhaps he needed to go on the offensive, and reveal the truth of the matter; and he was just about to, too, when Turner said, with meaningfully narrowed eyes, “ _Jack Shaftoe_ said it was only a gripe”; and the recall of that monstrous man, and all that he might do if Pieter told Sparrow’s secret to his men, was enough to make Pieter subside.

“Seems to me,” said someone behind him, “that what this fellow’s done is a sight worse than Stoney and Martingale having a go at each other. Don’t seem right, that the punishment should be the same.”

The low growls of agreement, and the awareness that he was being slowly surrounded, filled Pieter with dread.

“How d’you suggest punishing this one, then, Red?” said Turner, and hearing the chilly disdain in his voice, Pieter knew that no man here would help him.

*

Jack was dozing, curled on the rug with his head pillowed in one arm; was woken by distant cries and the sound of bodies hitting the deck above. Something was going on, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. More importantly, was all that bloody carry-on disturbing Jack Sparrow?

He sat up, pushing the hair from his face, and looked over at his patient; looked over, and saw a faint frown on Sparrow’s forehead, saw that Sparrow’s eyes were, oh joy, opening!; that fracas, whatever it was, had brought him out of the cold deep sleep that’d claimed him. A rush of warmth poured through Jack; Sparrow still looked ashen under that fevery sheen, but he was awake! Awake!

Awake, and looking at Jack with recognition, if confusion. Jack leaned close, smiled, and put a hand to Sparrow’s face, to his forehead; hot and clammy, still, but _here_. Here, and alive, and stirring all uncomfortably.

“What’s… what’s…?” Sparrow mumbled, his tongue thick in his mouth; Jack sloshed some watered rum into a pottery cup, and held it up to Sparrow’s lips, bidding him drink. He did, and then coughed, but then drank some more.

“Good, that’s good,” said Jack, his heart hammering with relief. “Tell me how you are, mate, are you back with me? Eh?”

“What’s happening?” said Sparrow hoarsely, flicking a glance upward, and then another all about him, and wrinkling his nose.

“Up there? I don’t care,” said Jack dismissively. “Prob’ly Bootstrap dealing with Martingale and Stone, they’ve been at each other.”

“Why?”

“I told you, I don’t care. Anyway, Bill didn’t know.”

“He wouldn’t,” said Sparrow. “Never notices anything unless it’s right under his nose.”

Jack had no idea what this might mean, and even less interest. “What about you?” he reiterated. “How d’you feel?”

“Like shite,” said Sparrow after a moment’s reflection, “but at least I’m back in my cabin now.”

“As opposed to?”

“In Hell, where I’ve been for some time.”

“Ahh, Jack, you… I’m so sorry. That fucking Spitaels. He near poisoned you, he’s got no bloody idea what he’s doing.”

“I was beginning to suspect as much. But you’ve nothing to apologise for; ‘twasn’t your idea, Jack. Was mine. I…” Sparrow trailed off, and put a hand to his brow, and just breathed for a moment; Jack fought down a pressing urge to gather the man up in his arms and hold him tight and safe. Gentle, he still needed to be gentle, and so all he did was put a hand on Sparrow’s shoulder, where the pink line of Esteban de Espinosa’s sword-blow lay pale and tender. The skin was hot, and throbby, but that felt so much better than the limp fishy chill of the early hours of this morning that Jack could not hold back a smile.

“Stupid to’ve trusted him; I just wanted a cure so much. Too much,” said Sparrow, and he looked then at Jack, looked right at him with all that affectionate heat that Jack’d come to rely on, to believe in as his own; eyes too shiny, too big still, but Jack Sparrow was _there_ , was back in his own self, was looking at Jack with that dear intensity. Was saying, without words, just _why_ he wanted that cure so badly.

“I know,” said Jack. “Don’t think I don’t want it too. For both of us. But we’ll be patient; you’ll get through this round, just like all the others.”

“’Course I will,” said Sparrow, but he paused for a beat before he said it, and they were silent for a moment.

There was another great crash on deck, and shouting, and some high pitched shriek; both of them looked upward, involuntarily. Turner, all muffled, was shouting something.

Sparrow tried to sit up. “Got to go and sort it out,” he mumbled. “Can you just give me a hand, and I’ll…” It was a brave effort, but a doomed one, and he got no further than propping himself onto an elbow before subsiding, and lying back, breathing heavily. The effort had brought pink spots of colour to his cheeks, but even that was good to see. He looked a lot less corpsey, like that.

“Yes, well, I think we’ll leave it a little bit longer before trying anything as excessive as sitting up,” said Jack. “Shall I go and see what’s happening up there?”

“Aye; tell ‘em, whatever they’re doing, bloody well stop it. And tell Martingale and Stone that I want to see ‘em.”

Jack frowned. “Mate, I don’t think you’re up to receiving visitors just yet. Hate to tell you this, but you’re a bloody mess. And you don’t smell too good.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Sparrow, with a fastidious glance at his surrounds. That cheered Jack no end, too; well enough to complain, that was always a good sign, wasn’t it?

“How about this; I’ll go and find out what’s afoot, and then come back and clean you up, and tell your boys to drop in on you this evening? If it’s a bit darker, well, they might not notice… you know.”

“Aye, I know. Yes, do that for me, will you, Jack?”

Jack grinned. “Do anything for you, Captain,” he said, striving for lightness; but the deep tugging truth of it came out plain in his voice. “Anything,” he said again; and could not help himself, but bent down and kissed Sparrow’s dry, hot lips.

Oh, the relief of feeling Jack Sparrow kissing him back, be it neverso carefully; Jack’d feared never to feel that again, and he kissed just a little harder, just a little surer, to be certain that Jack Sparrow knew how much he meant it.

Sparrow knew; his strong sinewy arms came up around Jack’s shoulders, his touch burning through the dirty linen, a burn that came, Jack knew, not only from Sparrow’s fever, but from the reaction of Jack’s own skin to any of this man’s caresses. How he wanted to let himself be pulled down onto Jack Sparrow, into his fiery embrace, to press close to that strange beauty, so dimmed and so nearly lost; but he mustn’t, mustn’t overdo things, for Sparrow was only just back from death’s door; and before his journey there, oh, hadn’t these things caused him pain, brought that terrible wince to his face? At the recall of that, Jack regretfully drew back, and would’ve apologised for his unthinking cruelty in subjecting Jack Sparrow to his kiss. But Sparrow was smiling, just a little; and he whispered, “Well, Jack, ole Pieter’s cure might’ve damn near killed me; but I’ve a feeling that it put a bit of a dent in the Pox, and all.”

Jack was desperately keen to clarify whether this meant what he thought it might mean, but another terrified shriek from up top, followed by some rather unpleasant laughter, drew his attention. “I better—” he said, just as Sparrow said, “I think—”, and Jack grinned, and pushed himself to his feet.

“Don’t move,” he said, as he backed out of the cabin. “Don’t move, and I’ll be back soon.”


	18. A Second Opinion, Chapter Eighteen

  
  
Jack Shaftoe reached the deck and stood for a moment, blinking and dizzy in the sudden light. The sun was beating down like a hammer from high above the larboard bow; it was nigh on noon, and the _Pearl_ was cracking along. Perhaps the wind had changed; Bill must've ordered more sail raised, though Jack could see no one aloft. There was a knot of men in the waist, though, cheering and shouting and pressing together like spectators at a cock-fight; above their merry cries rose a boyish, bubbling complaint.

Jack sighed. Christ knew it was justice, or the beginnings of it, for the mess in Jack Sparrow's cabin (including but not limited to its owner): yet for a moment -- a fleeting moment -- he'd actually felt _sorry_ for Spitaels, clearly the centre of that belligerent crowd. The _Pearl_ 's crew were rough lads, and Bill must've told them some of what Spitaels had done to their captain.

They wouldn't know why, not yet: but Spitaels looked the sort to cave and cry out at the first blow, and Sparrow had been adamant that no one must know of his Affliction. Jack sighed again, and made his way for'ard.

"Leave 'im!" he bellowed, using his elbows on various outlying members of the mob.

"Why?" shouted West, and the cry was taken up by the others, with various elaborations on the notion that _Jack_ , of all people, should resent any diminution in their captain's physickal well-being.

Useless denying it, though the very thought of Sparrow's former health and vitality and his current lack of either made Jack's heart lurch: he grinned, both to acknowledge the truth of those (increasingly ribald) remarks and to conceal his anxiety.

"True enough, true enough," he said, shoving forward 'til he was in clear space. The men had drawn back a little, leaving Pieter Spitaels sprawled on the black deck, one hand to his bleeding nose, wetly bemoaning this unmerited barbarity.

"I've done nothing, _nothing_ , that was not asked of me! I've --"

"I'd shut up, if _I_ were you," said Jack, glaring. _Kick 'im kick 'im kick 'im while 'e's down!_ carolled the Imp, and really it was the most tempting Impulse, to make Spitaels suffer as Sparrow had suffered, down below; to give him a second shiner to match the promising puffiness around his left eye, to even out the bruises and redness on the visible parts of his body -- Jack averted his eyes from the pasty skin revealed by Spitaels' stained shirt, half-ripped from his shoulder -- and ensure that Spitaels was too busy _complaining_ to reveal any secrets.

Bill Turner was looking at Jack, a question implicit in his gaze; around him the men quietened, eager too for news of their captain.

"All's well," said Jack, choosing his words with care. "A definite improvement."

Bill beamed, and Jack loved him for it. "Glad to hear it," he said. "Any word on these two dogs?" He gestured at Stone and Martingale, standing shackled by the mainmast with Gill glowering between 'em.

"Captain wants to see 'em, later on," said Jack. "Not yet; he's sleeping."

"Back to the brig with 'em," directed Turner, with a jerk of his head. West emerged from the crowd, cradling a reddened, tooth-dented hand -- Jack's opinion of Spitaels rose infinitesimally -- to help Gill shepherd the two below. "Don't you worry, boys," Bootstrap called after them. "We'll find you somewhere more spacious, see if we don't!"

Jack was puzzled by this remark, but kept his curiosity to himself: Bootstrap stood in Sparrow's place, for now, and 'twouldn't do to question his commands.

"'Tis time," said an indistinct voice, from the vicinity of Jack's left knee, "for the second phase of the treatment, which --"

"Don't you ever _learn_?" cried Jack, giving in -- oh, it felt good -- to the urge to administer a solid kick to Pieter Spitaels' torso. He thought of following up with a sufficiency of blows to keep the man quiet; but he was tired and aching, and anyway Spitaels had subsided, muttering darkly to himself.

"Ain't the rest of you got work to do?" enquired Bill of the company. "Back to it, eh?"

Soon there were only the three of them left; Bootstrap, leaning against the rail with his arms folded (Jack wanted to tell him that no man could play captain in such a vilely orange shirt), Jack himself all dizzy and disoriented, and Spitaels on the deck between them, snuffling like a hog.

"I told 'em marooning," offered Bill. "An' the same for this one," with a nod at the oblivious Alchemist.

"Better than a flogging," opined Jack, who had been on the receiving end of that flavour of justice too many times for his own liking. "But why _him_?"

"Do _you_ want 'im on board?"

"Nah," said Jack. "But I s'pose he might come in handy, you never know. Plenty of little islands 'round Saint Lucia, as I recall: I'll bet a couple of 'em --"

"We ain't headed for Saint Lucia, Mr Shaftoe," said Bill Turner, uncrossing his arms as though he expected some argument.

"Really?" said Jack. "All this _command_ gone to your head, has it, mate?"

Bill glared, and said, "I reckon there's more _important_ things, right now, than picking a few clipped coins out of that godforsaken reef." And he cut a meaningful glance aft, in the general direction of Jack Sparrow's cabin.

"More important things than _gold_? Don't let Jack Sparrow hear you say that," said Jack, more out of principle than from any quarrel with Bill Turner's priorities.

Bootstrap grunted, but was not otherwise forthcoming.

"All right," said Jack, heaving a dramatickal sigh. "Where're we going, then, Mr Turner? What delightful earthly paradise awaits us at the end of this pleasure-cruise, eh?"

"Funny you should mention the earthly paradise," said Bill, grinning. "Enoch had a fair bit to say about that, as I recall."

Spitaels made a querulous noise, and Jack thought about kicking him again, but could not be bothered to stir himself: he glared, instead -- so much less strenuous -- and Spitaels subsided once more upon the deck.

"Could do with Enoch's company, I reckon," said Jack. "Could do with his _skill_."

"'Xactly my thoughts, Mr Shaftoe," said Bill cheerfully. "That's why we're headed for Guyana: for the place where we left 'im."

"Taken a lot on yourself, ain't you, Bill? Lucky that Jack Sparrow trusts you with his ship, really. 'Cause _I_ think --"

"An' you'd've chosen different, would you? You'd've headed back to that damned reef, and never mind --"

Jack prided himself on not backing down from such arguments; but he hadn't the energy, right now, to contend with Bill's ferocity, and besides, the man had a point. He held both hands up, hoping to halt the progress of that point, and all its needly offspring. "No, mate: you've the right of it. Enoch's what we need now: Enoch and his box of tricks." He cast a spiteful glance at Spitaels, who had apparently fallen asleep right there on the deck. "Assuming we can _find_ him, of course."

"We'll find him," said Bootstrap resolutely. "For Jack."

* * *

Jack Sparrow dozed, dreaming now of cool breezes and forest shade. Dreaming of Jack Shaftoe, all naked and sunlit and grinning at him. Dreaming, for some reason, of parrots. These parrots had learnt, somehow, to speak -- nay, to _curse_ like the roughest stevedore -- and they were making a frightful din. Jack's head ached with it.

Slowly he became aware that he was not stretched out in the sun on some Caribbean cliff-top, but laid out on his own bed in his cabin; a cabin that smelt of fresh sea air, though there was a lingering rancidity that made Jack's stomach roil.

He must've made some sound, for suddenly, delightfully, Jack Shaftoe was there at his side, kneeling on the rug beside the bed, gazing keenly at him.

"Jack?" he said. "How're you feeling?"

Jack took a moment to assess this. He ached, all right; ached in every muscle, as though he'd spent a long stormy night aloft. There were sharper, redder pains here and there, reminding him of Hell, and the confounded Pox, and Spitaels' thrice-damned tripartite Remedy.

He wanted to laugh at the sheer relief he felt, to have come back from _that_ : but Shaftoe's worried look promised yet more care, and solace, and comfort, and Jack's baser self could not resist such temptation.

"Not so good," he said feebly, pressing the back of his wrist to his clammy brow.

"Let me help," said Shaftoe, setting his own cool hand gently to Jack's face. Jack pushed against the touch: Lord, it felt good to have Shaftoe so close, so sweetly attentive. "Can I fetch you anything?" he was saying.

" _Anything_?" said Jack, and then he remembered: Jack Shaftoe leaning over him, pressing his lips to Jack's -- couldn't've been nice, in Jack's foul state, but Shaftoe hadn't complained -- and saying, "Anything for you."

A shiver of remorse for his duplicity worked itself through Jack's abused body. It wasn't right, to tease Jack Shaftoe so. Shaftoe deserved to have everything that Jack could give him: and Jack dearly longed to be in a state to bestow a multitude of wonders 'pon Shaftoe, and not merely chaste kisses and tender looks.

"I'll tell you what I need, Jack," he said. "I need something to drink, and something to wash with: and then, Mr Shaftoe, then I need you here next to me."

Shaftoe drew back, grinning. "C'n tell you're feeling better, mate," he said. "I've cleaned up a bit, in here: thought I might clean _you_ up a bit, too, 'fore Stone and Martingale show up."

Jack felt his own smile broadening. "Seems to me," he said, "that you're entirely too fond of bathing me, Jack."

"Just water, this time," said Jack Shaftoe. "I promise." And he helped Jack sit up, both of them grimacing at the way the filthy sheet stuck to his mottled skin; helped him get out of bed and stumble, weak as a kitten, across the tiny cabin and collapse onto his sturdy sea-trunk. The deadlights were propped open, and a cooling breeze tingled against Jack's abused skin: Shaftoe, solicitous as a nursemaid, wrapped a striped blanket around his shoulders, deaf to his assertion that a little fresh air never hurt anybody.

There was a bowl of water waiting on the table, and a heap of rags, and a cup that Shaftoe steadied against Jack's mouth as he drank. Too much water in it, but the rum was wonderfully reviving, and so was the look in Jack Shaftoe's eyes as he watched Jack, sat there half-naked in the late light. Jack felt himself responding to the look -- to Jack Shaftoe, haggard and dirty and yet, as always, wholly desirable -- and, more, exulting in the lack of that horrid stabbing pain which had so cruelly quelled every twinge of desire in recent days.

"Feeling better, then?" said Shaftoe, grinning.

"That fiery bath of whatever-it-was works, I swear it," said Jack, "though it ain't a remedy I'd wish on anyone."

Shaftoe took a rag, and dipped it in the bowl, and brought it to Jack's skin, washing him gently. The water was warm, but Jack shivered at Shaftoe's touch. He wanted those broad, confident hands on him, wanted skin and heat and strength. And yet the look in Jack Shaftoe's eye, all nursemaidy again, told him that he'd have to wait.

Didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the sensation, though; didn't mean he couldn't smile, and bite gently at his lower lip, as Shaftoe cleaned away sweat and mud and worse, his expression serious while he focussed on his task, and laughingly exasperated when he glanced up at Jack's face.

"I remember," Shaftoe murmured, squeezing out the rag and dipping it again, "when we came back from Port Royal, after de Braxas, and you cleaned all the blood off me, and your hands on me, Jack; oooh, that was fine."

"I remember that too," said Jack, low and fierce. "Remember you all dazed and drugged and, mmm, _affectionate_ , Jack: an' surely you'd expect no less from me, eh?"

"Mmm," offered Shaftoe, noncommittally. He was washing Jack's groin now, impersonal as any doctor, and Jack fought back a powerful urge to clasp his hand over Shaftoe's just _there_ , and make him drop the rag and, and ...

Jack sighed, and Shaftoe looked up at once, all anxious lest he’d caused Jack some discomfort, his warm hand stilling at its work. Oh, ‘twas unfair to tease and tempt, so very unfair. Jack bit his lip (entirely oblivious, naturally, of the way this drew Shaftoe's attention to his mouth) to prevent the emergence of further entreaties. But perhaps his eyes spoke for him, or perhaps the two of them – having played this game, now, for a month and more -- were more nearly Attun’d than Jack’d dared hope; for there was an answering spark of glee in Jack Shaftoe's blue gaze, a perfect comprehension and acknowledgement of everything that Jack desired, and a complementary desire to bestow it all -- all! -- upon him.

Shaftoe knew what he wanted, all right. He was wrapping his long fingers, ever so carefully, around Jack's hard prick; was kneeling there at Jack's feet, gazing up at him with that devilish grin, and stroking him. Oh, he wanted more, wanted Shaftoe's delicious mouth on him -- though, glancing down at the state of himself, he could not bear to ask it. That foul mud-treatment had dried up the worst of the chancres, all right, and the clutch of pustules near his cock had faded to mere goose-pimples: but an angry redness still mottled the skin of his thighs, and there were bruises, where the concentrated force of the treatment had brought blood welling up from his veins.

Good to see, though, that various parts of his anatomy were in working order once again; and though he could not sink himself into Shaftoe's glorious mouth, he could thrust into that hot clever hand, could tilt his face up for Shaftoe's hesitant, and then voracious, kiss. Could slide his own hand inside Shaftoe's shirt and touch warm, dry skin, rub his thumb against a nipple and feel it rise at his touch. Could moan into Shaftoe's mouth, quite overtaken by the rapidity of his climax. Oh, it burnt all along the core of his cock, from the base of his spine to the sudden flooding over Shaftoe’s fingers; but to admit that would be to deny himself its repetition, for he knew Shaftoe'd be vastly careful of him 'til he was wholly restor'd. Jack smoothed a smile over the sudden wince, and kissed Jack Shaftoe again, because he could.

"Dear me, I've made you all _dirty_ ," said Shaftoe, smirking. "Let me clean you up."

"Tit for tat," said Jack, with a leer. "Anything I can help you with, mate?"


	19. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Nineteen

  


Jack wiped away the last traces of Sparrow's enjoyment and sat back on his heels, grinning. Sparrow’s lowered gaze was happily wicked under the layer of fatigue; following it down to his own groin Jack saw the line of his cock, plain through his thin breeches, and grinned wider still.

“What did y’expect?” he said, and was about to add _of course there’s something you can help me with_ as Jack Sparrow's hand voyaged south, pressing against the curve of Jack's hip, brushing tantalisingly against his hardness, when somebody banged on the door.

Jack pulled away, swearing. Sparrow, apparently mindful of the need to keep up appearances, pulled the blanket back around himself, achieving a modicum of decency.

"Jack?" said Bootstrap, from outside the cabin.

"Aye?" said Jack and Sparrow, in unison; and they grinned at one another even as Bootstrap lifted the latch and came in.

"You all right, Jack? Thought I heard ..." Bootstrap's voice trailed away as he looked from Sparrow to Jack, taking in his captain's satiated smile and Jack's scowl. He cleared his throat, and threw Jack an exasperated and angry look, as if to say, _Can’t you leave him be for one damned moment?_ Jack shifted, to hide the obvious evidence of his own needs, and set his jaw. Bloody Turner, what did he know about it? What did he know of what Jack Sparrow wanted or needed, of what made him gasp and sigh and brought him joy and sweet release?

Besides which, what man (or woman) in this world could resist the lure of Jack Sparrow, bare and affectionate, reminding him of glorious misdeeds past, and hinting at his desire for reciprocity? Sparrow’d made it clear enough what he desired, and if Jack desired it too, what was amiss? Why should he not have put his hands to Jack Sparrow?

The Imp giggled in his ear, an easy task from its perch upon his back, and in a singsong voice claimed _You know Billy’s rii-iight! You should leave him be-ee! Sick, ain’t he Jackling, sick and weak and you all greedy strong and wanting, heehee, but ain’t that why it’s good oh Jack my love, ain’t it shiny fine when it’s a badness?_

Jack, who knew very well how shiny fine badnesses of all descriptions could be, shrugged his shoulders to dislodge his familiar (who fell to the boards with a thump and an indistinct wail) and tried to attend to what Sparrow was saying to Bootstrap: "Been worse. What's happening?"

"Martingale and Stone are pissing 'emselves in the brig," said Bootstrap. "I told 'em you wanted 'em flogged; said we'd maroon 'em instead."

"Together?" said Sparrow, eyebrows shooting up.

"Aye," growled Bootstrap. "Let 'em sort it 'tween the two of 'em. Or maybe Mr Spitaels can advise 'em: he's going, too."

“Why’s that?”

Jack and Bootstrap snorted in unison. “For what he’s done to you,” said Bill, at the same time as Jack said, “He near killed you, mate.”

“Ah, you’re exaggerating,” said Sparrow airily. “’Twas a harsh cure, I’ll give you that, but I’m feeling a little better. In fact, parts of me appear to be markedly improved.” With which utterance he shot such a volcanically filthy look at Jack that Jack blushed. Sparrow started to laugh, but it turned rapidly to a thick cough, and that in turn became a gagging retch; Jack lunged, just in time, for the temporarily emptied sick-bucket.

“Oh yes,” said Bill, once the worst of the vomiting was done with, “you’re a lot better, you are. The little worm’s off this ship, Jack, and that’s that. Now, Henry’s bringing you something to eat; and then, Martingale and Stone can come to see you as you asked. Though I don’t know why, for they’ll tell you nothing, and the decision’s made.”

There was a laden silence, till Sparrow said, in a low and deceptively sweet voice, “But I din’t make any such decision, Bill.”

Bill looked away, and shook his head, and visibly composed himself before saying, “Jack, while you’re not well, I’ll act for you. I’ll be your right hand, as I always am, and I’ll keep this ship running. But you have to trust me, sometimes, and all. And it’s a bit hard of you to be arguing over whether they should be marooned, when if I’d carried out _your_ orders they’d both have been hanged at dawn.”

Jack sat silent, holding his tongue for once as Sparrow’s jaw sagged.

“What?” said Sparrow, in dismay. “I what?” He glanced from one to the other, and Jack nodded his confirmation.

“Well,” said Jack Sparrow, slowly. “Must’ve been sicker’n I thought, eh?”

“Aye; so trust me, Jack,” said Turner. (Jack Shaftoe could not help but note that he did not mention their change of course.) “Trust me, and rest, you hear?” he added as he left, throwing Jack a threat-heavy glance that made Jack (not to mention the Imp) want to do nothing so much as poke out his tongue in return.

The Imp, being predominantly invisible, felt free to act upon the urge. Jack had to do it without opening his lips. It gave him an odd expression, but was satisfying nonetheless.

*

With Shaftoe’s help, Jack was clean and dressed by the time Joe Henry arrived, bearing soup and bread. This was not entirely Jack’s idea, for he’d been keen to resume from where they left off before Bill’s interruption; but Shaftoe was annoyingly adamant that food would be arriving at any moment, and they’d no time for reciprocity. The annoyance factor, here, came as much from the sense that Shaftoe was being thoughtful of Jack’s continuing incapacity, as from missing out on the entertainment itself. Jack hated being the weakling. But, after he forced down half a bowl of broth, and promptly brought it back up again, along with disturbing quantities of mucous vileness, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t, really, in the full bloom of strength.

Lucky, really, that he was such an inventive fellow; for this lack of physickal capacity was spawning a myriad of other ideas for ways in which to amuse himself, and Jack Shaftoe… but first, first, Martingale and Stone. He dispatched Shaftoe to the brig, to bring them one by one up to his newly aired cabin, and sat himself sternly behind the table, trying to assume a Captainly Aspect.

Stone came in first, shoved in by Shaftoe; “Mr Shaftoe, can you wait outside with Mr Martingale?” Jack requested. He could see that Shaftoe was on the verge of arguing with him, so added, “Please?”; a word which always, for some reason, seemed to do the trick.

Stone stood silent, his mousy hair all awry, his nondescript face all set and miserable. Jack sighed.

“I s’pose you think I’m going to ask you what all that was about, eh, Mr Stone?”

“Ain’t you?” muttered Stone in a distinctly insubordinate tone.

“No,” said Jack, “it’d be a waste of time, seeing as I already _know_.”

Stone scowled at that, but at least looked up. He wasn’t quite brave enough to say, _well, if you’re so damned clever, tell me then_ ; but he might as well have done.

“Oh come on,” said Jack, with a bored sigh, “D’you think me an idiot? Whatever else may’ve happened to set it off, I know what’s at the bottom of it. At the bottom of it is that pretty Jamie Martingale’s caught your eye, and won’t have aught to do wi’ you. Which is a damned annoying situation, I’m sure. But not any reason to take to the boy with your fists, mate.”

Stone flushed, and insisted, “That ain’t the reason, captain, no it ain’t! That boy’s, he’s, he’s a dirty little bugger, you should’ve seen the way he—”

“So what?” said Jack. “ _I’m_ a dirty little bugger, and it don’t seem to bother you none. Or take Mr Shaftoe, I swear to you he’s entirely _filthy_ , but you don’t run around smacking him for’t, do you? Because you don’t care. But poor ol’ Martingale, now, you do care. And I’m sorry that it ain’t working out for you, but I won’t have you fighting over it, you hear me?”

Stone grunted sullenly, and then thought to ask, “What of this marooning of Mr Turner’s, then?”

Jack thought for a moment, but it wasn’t right to overturn Bill Turner’s decision like that. Not after what Jack’d apparently demanded in the darkest depths of his sickness. Instead he said, “I can tell you, Mr Stone, there’s only one thing that’ll sway Bill Turner; and that’s honesty, and repentance.”

“But it weren’t my—”

“Oh, stop arguing and get out,” said Jack irritably, and shouted for Shaftoe; who came in, and swapped his interviewees over.

Jamie Martingale, all shackled and grubby and sulky, was still a pretty thing in his pale and peaky way; Jack’d thought it the first time he saw him, in that gaol, and claimed him for his own crewman. He could see why poor Stone’s affections had fallen in that quarter. Unfortunately, he could also see why they weren’t reciprocated. Which was always a sad thing, though luckily not something that Jack himself had ever really experienced. Except for those first few days with intractable Jack Shaftoe, circling and fighting and taunting and teasing… Christ, that’d been fun. So delicious; for Jack’d been sure that Shaftoe, despite all his avowals and belligerence, would cave eventually, and when he did…

“Captain?” said Martingale, querulously, bringing Jack out of his happy reverie.

“Mm!” said Jack, trying madly to focus. “Yes. Quite. James Martingale! You’re a wicked fellow, and thoughtless too. Poor Stone, you’re driving him perfectly mad, and then you stab him, which is really a case of insult-to-injury, ain’t it?”

He squirmed in his seat, and opened his eyes wide to wake himself; all this talking was making him woozy, and tired; and this chair was hard and unforgiving, and nowhere near as comforting as, say, leaning against Jack Shaftoe might be.

“I’m not driving him mad!” said Martingale, all scowling green-eyed truculence. “He swung at me, an’ over nothing!”

“That first night in Port Royal,” said Jack, suddenly, having had an unexpected epiphany (possibly brought on by the way Jamie Martingale’s pale gold skin flushed rosy when he frowned so), “did you meet some fellow?”

Martingale blushed madly, and Jack suppressed a triumphant grin. “Well, then!” he exclaimed. “’Magine, it, Jamie, if you were there with, ooh, I don’t know, _Jack Shaftoe_ or someone, and you had a fondness for him—can you ‘magine such a thing, eh?—and he was all unattached,” (oh, Martingale was scarlet now) “and then he not only told you nay, but found some other friend; why, wouldn’t that drive _you_ mad?”

“But Jack Shaftoe does have _some other friend_ ,” said Martingale, stubborn despite his blushes, “and he’s every right to. Ain’t I the right, too?”

“’Course you have. Just try not to be _stupid_ about it. And by ‘stupid’ I mean such things as rolling about with some other fellow on a moonlit beach where Stone can see you, eh?” said Jack, taking a wild punt which, by the look on the boy’s face, wasn’t too far wrong. “Now go away and make up, and be extremely apologetic to Bill, and do try to stop being such a tart for a while, will you?”

“ _Captain!_ I’m not a—”

“Mr Shaftoe!” carolled Jack, over the top of Martingale’s protestations. “Come and take this wretched creature away, if you please!”

It seemed to take forever for Shaftoe to return the two of them to the brig; by the time he returned the sunset had flared and dimmed. Darkness was encroaching on the cabin, where Jack had lit a lanthorn and taken himself back to bed, all bare under the sheets and thinking of all the ways a tired invalid might amuse himself without undue physical exertion.

Shaftoe looked exhausted, and all; Jack wasn’t too keen to ask all the horrid detail of the parts of the night and morning that he couldn’t recall, but he doubted they were much fun. There were dark shadows ‘neath Shaftoe’s eyes, and his shoulders were slumped. But there was some spark in his eye, when he saw where Jack’d positioned himself, and he smiled with one half of his mouth and said, “Tired yourself out, have you, Jack?”

“Knackered,” agreed Jack. “Couldn’t possibly lift a finger to do a single thing, me.”

“Oh,” said Shaftoe, visibly tamping down disappointment.

“’Xcept maybe talk. Or read. Or, watch… something,” said Jack, stretching his arms and straightening his legs beneath the sheet, so that it was pulled down his chest. Not many marks, on his chest; and in the lamplight, he’d lay, he didn’t look too bad at all. No, clearly not; for Shaftoe licked his lips, and said, a little hoarsely, “What d’you want to talk about? Stone and Martingale? They were awfully quiet, on the way back; but then, I swear, they started to talk to one another like civilised men, so whatever the hell you said to them, it worked.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jack, as though he mediated these types of things every day, and was entirely unsurprised by his own capacity to mend fences. “But no, Jack, I’ve no wish to talk of Stone and Martingale. I’d rather talk of… Shaftoe. Shaftoe, and Sparrow.”

Shaftoe stood, still, in the middle of the rug, a couple of feet from the bed; barefoot, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his breeches still stained with that horrid mud concoction. He reached behind himself as Jack was talking, and unknotted his messy queue; pushed the hair back from his forehead, and grinned at the way Jack was watching him. “Talk,” he said, “aye, we can talk. But no more than that; for you’re recuperating, and I should be no sort of friend if I were to… incite any activity that’d delay your recovery, eh, Jack?”

“Fair enough,” said Jack equably. “I shan’t touch you, then, mate, nor you me, neither.”

A brief flash of dismay was replaced with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk as Shaftoe followed Jack’s own train of thought to the alternative, and nodded. “As you wish, Jack. I’ll not touch… _you_ ,” he said, and slipped a hand into the open neck of his shirt, holding onto his own square shoulder, stroking his thumb along the ridge of his collarbone. “But, anything else you might require me to touch; why, as I said to you, my friend; I’d do anything, for you.”

Oh, Lord, Jack Shaftoe, swelling before Jack’s eyes as he stood there and stroked his own warm skin and smiled with that wild, open smile of his; Jack’s pulse pounded, and if he hadn’t felt weak before (though he had, as it happened) he certainly did now. He licked his lips, and muttered, “Anything?”


	20. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty

  
  
CHAPTER TWENTY

"Anything," said Jack Shaftoe, and he slid his other hand over the flatness of his belly. Jack shivered in his hot sheets, and swallowed.

"Because," he said in an admirably calm tone, "There's a lot of things I would do, an I could; but seems I'm not permitted, so I'll be needing someone else to do them for me."

"What would you do?" asked Shaftoe, his voice all low and gravelly. "Tell me, Jack."

"Well, see," said Jack, already feeling a warm heaviness in his cock, "there's this rather fabulous fellow that I know, looks just like you; and I'd surely like to touch him, were I able. I'd like to... oh, to start, I'd just like to push my fingers up into his hair; thick as straw, it is, and strong as he is, and bright as his laugh; and when my hand's there, in his hair, I can bring his face to mine, his mouth to mine; can kiss him, and ah, he tastes like... like the most delicious sin."

"There's some limit to what I can do in your stead," said Shaftoe, all laughing, but nonetheless doing as he was told; shoving his long strong fingers into the goldy mess of his hair and rolling his head into his own touch.

"'Magine those kisses, then; 'magine them for me," said Jack, and Shaftoe flashed a lust-filled look at him and bit his lip. Oh _fuck_ , Jack wanted to bite it too; and this strange agreement, this un-touching, might just be the most glorious torture he'd ever invented.

"I'd slide my hand up inside his shirt," he said, his voice all throaty and cracking, and Shaftoe did it; did it so that his shirt-tails caught on his arm and pulled the linen up, up over his beautiful golden belly, fine hairs shining in the lamplight. Jack could see his hand under the fabric; the hills of his knuckles, as he touched his nipple.

"I'd stroke the skin, there, just at the side of his armpit," murmured Jack, "Where it tickles him; where it makes him gasp." And he did it to himself, as instruction; did it, and Shaftoe did it, and Jack did it again, and had to close his eyes just for a moment, at the shivery glory of it. Did it again. Again.

"But I know you, Jack," Shaftoe was muttering. "You'd not leave him there, all clothed. You'd want flesh, would you not?"

"Aye. I'd run my hands up over his ribs, where the muscle sits so hard and tight, and I'd pull that shirt over his head," Jack agreed, and there, slow and sure and with a shift of his weight from hip to hip that threw his erection into sharp relief beneath his breeches, Shaftoe did it; let his shirt fall to the floor. Started to unbutton himself --

"Wait, wait," said Jack, perfectly dizzy with lust. " I didn't tell him he could do that, yet."

Shaftoe, yes, _pouted_ \-- oh, Lord, how Jack longed to suckle on that lower lip, perhaps en route to other locales -- but his hand stilled, there on the buttons of his breeches. Then, with a sidelong glance and a wicked smirk, he tugged gently at the cloth, pulling it tighter over the hard line of his yard. Jack bit his own lip, lest some inarticulate sound escape him.

"And what'd you have him do then, eh, _Captain_?"

Jack wondered for a moment if Shaftoe were mocking his temporary abrogation of command: but there was no slyness in his smile. Jack was truly master here in this little quiet world of theirs: master, and Jack Shaftoe at his command. 'Twas a different sort of felicity to the art of captaining a pirate ship, a pirate company, and it brought different rewards. The sheen of sweat, like shimmery Greek fire, on Shaftoe's strong-muscled torso; the dart of his tongue along his upper lip, slow and teasing; the twitch of his cock, still untouched, beneath his breeches.

"I'd have him," said Jack, and then had to swallow. "I'd have him set his hand just _here_ ," he laid one long finger at the notch of his own throat, "and trace the path a lover's hand might take."

Oh, Jack Shaftoe was warming to this game, all right. He pressed two fingers to his lips and blew a kiss to Jack; then, all obedient, trailed that kiss slowlyslowly down over the ridge of his collarbone, to a coppery island of nipple that swelled and peaked visibly as he fondled it. Jack, spellbound, stared at Shaftoe's hand as it wandered further, resting above Shaftoe's heart for a brief moment: mazy with the desire to somehow _be_ that hand, he felt his gaze impelled upwards, and saw Shaftoe's blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking and warm as summer. For a long moment they stared at one another, and Jack felt himself sinking deeper into the warm ocean of lust that was rising within, all around, him: then Shaftoe's gaze flicked downward once more, and Jack willingly followed it to where that cunning hand resumed its descent, tracing the firm curve of muscle beneath the rib-cage, circling the navel (a better fit, surely, for tongue than for finger), smoothing down the trail of hair ...

"Having feasted my eyes on his _upper_ parts," managed Jack through dry lips, "I'd find myself curious -- for memory's ever stale -- as to what other delights lay hid beneath his ... clothes."

Oh, the alacrity with which Shaftoe's hand dove once more to the buttons of those repulsive breeches! 'Twas enough to make Jack feel dizzy, and dizzier at the thought of such eagerness being (temporarily, of course, and -- Jack, even sick and drugged, was no fool -- within definite, though infinitely promising, limits) entirely at his command. Just watching Shaftoe, all wanton showmanship and incendiary gaze, work each button slowly loose, watching Jack's face as he gradually revealed himself, was enough to make Jack writhe in his lonely bed.

And oh, the vision of Jack Shaftoe, shimmying his hips to dislodge the garment, and stepping free of his clothes, cock standing proud and already aglint with moisture: Jack stared and stared as though the sight alone would be enough for him. And perhaps, tonight, it would.

But Shaftoe's right hand was rising, artlessly graceful, to wrap itself 'round that enviable organ as, earlier, it'd curled itself around Jack's own. Jack moistened his lips, and said, "Oh yes, Mr Shaftoe: I'd touch him just so, just to feel the, the _extent_ of his desire: for he's abrim with desire, this fine fellow, though p'rhaps I flatter myself in thinking it's all for me."

"Fishing again, Jack," countered Shaftoe, with that sharp-toothed grin that twisted something deep in Jack's belly. "But, oh, let's say 'tis _all_ for you, eh? For I don't see anyone else here, Jack: just thee and me." His hand tightened around his shaft, and he gave himself a long, slow, humming stroke. "And Jack, I'll tell you true, there's no one else could make me feel so ... so ..."

* * *

Oh, words failed him: but Jack Sparrow had their meaning, right enough, if the look on his face -- all wicked and fond and full of wonder -- was anything to go by. And Jack could not deny the sweet lure of this improbable piece of theatre, of disrobing like some Drury Lane harlot with Jack Sparrow his sole, admiring audience. Easy enough, to phant'sy that it was Sparrow's hand on him, and simultaneously Sparrow's cock that swelled and pulsed beneath his fingers.

Sparrow'd turned on his side, the better to observe Jack, and Jack wanted to show him everything. Everything. His whole skin thrummed with the warmth and weight of Sparrow's gaze. He stepped back, hitching himself half onto the table -- it groaned beneath his weight -- so that, one foot a-dangle, he could display himself more brazenly for Jack Sparrow. Oh, it felt good to be _seen_ , so: felt good to hear Sparrow's groan, and echo it softly himself as his thumb pressed against that spot under his cockhead.

"Ah," said Sparrow thickly, "and then, Jack, then I'd have him put that _other_ hand, that lazy other hand, to work: for 'twouldn't be just, to leave so much of his delightful flesh untouched."

Jack raised his left hand, fingers splayed -- the stump of the smallest one itched a little, but no longer ached -- and raised his eyebrows too, awaiting Sparrow's instruction. Ah, this game was a fine one: and when it was _his_ turn, oh, the things ...

"I'd pinch him, just in that tender spot in the crease of his thigh: why," said Sparrow, grinning, "I s'pose there might even be a _mark_ there, to show the place."

A mark? Jack glanced down quickly at himself, frowning: but sight of the round, purpling bruise, dark as berry-juice, brought the memory of Jack Sparrow's mouth administering it. So long since he'd had Jack Sparrow's hands, his mouth, for his own. He gasped at the small sharp pain of his own pinch, and at the recollection of what _else_ Sparrow's mouth had done on that occasion.

"I'd ... oh ..."

The threadbare sheet was tented above Sparrow's groin, and his hand had disappeared beneath its edge: Jack grinned and leaned back, spreading his legs wider, remembering that time with the map, with Sparrow laid out on this table, all wide open and wanting. Remembering how he'd felt, looking at Sparrow, though it'd all been new to him then, strange and wicked and deliciously forbidden. From the way that Sparrow was staring at him now, though, his hand moving slowly and deliberately under the sheet, the sight of Jack Shaftoe was having a comparable effect. Never mind how many others (maids and men both, Jack was certain) had laid themselves bare before that black gaze: this rapt intensity was surely something new-born for the two of them. Emboldened by the sheer novelty, as much as by Sparrow's evident admiration for him, Jack let his left hand trail over his thighs, cupping and lifting his heavy balls, and was rewarded by a long, shivery sigh.

"Mmmm, Jack, your hand's of like mind to my own," murmured Sparrow, all low and growling. "An' I reckon your hand knows all the places my hand'd venture, were I to touch you: which I'm, oh, I'm not."

_Let him make him JackmyJack!_ trilled the Imp, its breath hot and heavy in Jack's ear, its pulse pounding counterpoint to Jack's own. _O his knowing naughty hands!_

Jack tilted his head back, looking at Sparrow from under his lashes; Lord knew it was a fine thing when a girl did it, and if that wordless noise were anything to go by, Jack must look pretty fine, too. Revelling in this new-found power, Jack found it easy to resist the Imp's blandishments, though Sparrow, stretched out on the bed, was so close that a single step would've brought Jack to his side. Instead, he settled himself more comfortably on the table -- good weathered wood, and not a splinter to be felt against his bare arse -- and pulled at his cock, smoothing the soft skin over his shaft, letting Jack Sparrow see just how hard and heavy and aching his words had made it.

Sparrow propped himself up on one elbow. The sheet covered him -- and covered, mercifully, the worst of the Pox-depradations -- but Jack had spent many a happy hour mapping and charting Jack Sparrow's body, and he found its picture vivid in his head. That long scar on his thigh; the silky black hair at his groin; his cock, oh, his cock rising all proud and promising, ready for Jack's hand, his mouth ... The image quite obscured more recent, less appealing memories of Sparrow's tormented body, and Jack gave himself up to a delicious con-fusion of memory and anticipation.

"Aye," said Sparrow thickly. Jack could see the muscles in his arm flex as his hand, out of sight, mimicked Jack's own; and knowing what Sparrow did, what he _felt_ , was as arousing as though 'twere Jack, in truth, making him feel thus. "Aye," Sparrow murmured again. "That's it, Jack. Show me how you'd have me touch you, eh?"

"I'd have you do more than _this_ ," said Jack. "Though, mmm, I remember when you first put your hand on me, Jack; remember ..."

Oh, he'd been shy of it all at first, denying himself the full mysterious ecstasy of sinking deep within Sparrow's body; drawing back from aught that was more than a kiss or a caress. The trembling pleasures provided by Sparrow's clever hands, by his wicked hot mouth, had shaken him in spirit as well as in body; but in the end he'd come to it, he'd wanted more. And Jack Sparrow had given him everything, everything he'd wanted. More.

"Just imagine .. imagine it's my hand on you, there, Jack; 'magine it's my hand, an' I'm standing there behind you." Sparrow's voice, still quiet in the charged atmosphere of the cabin, seemed richer and more resonant. "Standing there all pressed up close, m' chest 'gainst your back, with my cock, oh, pushing against that gorgeous arse ..."

Jack hummed, and stroked himself harder, biting his lip, very aware of Jack Sparrow's open mouth, of that pink tongue swirling, oh Christ, 'round Sparrow's own fingers before they vanished beneath the sheet once more.

"Think of it, Jack, just think ..." Sparrow swallowed, and Jack _did_ think; thought of Sparrow's throat closing around his prick, all tight and hot. "Think of me, ooooh, pushing _in_... oh, Jack, it'd feel so fine, eh?"

_You_ should be so lucky, Jack wanted to say: but his hand moved faster on his cock at the phant'sied feel of Sparrow, all hot and hard behind him, and closer, and ...

After all, 'twas only words. Only talk. Inspired, or Imp-led, he canted his hips, feeling cool air against his arse; cool air, and the incendiary tingle of Sparrow's gaze.

"Christ, Jack, yes; just 'magine it; no pain, no none, but only pleasure -- like the pleasure you give me when you're in me, the pleasure, mmm, the _pleasure_ I take and take and oh Christ Jack, Jack, come here!"

Sparrow's breath was all ragged, and his face was feverishly bright, and there was nothing, almost nothing, that Jack wanted more, now, than the bliss of Sparrow's hand upon him to bring him to his climax. His arse was tightening (an oddly exciting sensation) at the thought of it, of Sparrow buried deep in him, and -- though knowing himself quite maddened with lust -- he craved that experience, knew himself a fool to deny --

But then Sparrow was gasping, and crying out, back bent like a bow; and Jack, his body outpacing his thoughts, was coming too, hard and fast as though he hadn't come for weeks and, oh Christ, _everywhere_.

"A fine aim you have there," Sparrow congratulated him after a while, and Jack (who had discovered an urgent need for rest, and was leaning back against the table once more) opened his eyes, and began to laugh.

"Come here," invited Sparrow, with a slow lewd smile that stirred the remnants of Jack's humours; those, at least, that still resided within him, rather than on the rug, or pearled and smeared on (Jack grinned) Jack Sparrow's chest. "Come and rub it in, Jack: for I swear it'll do me more good than any of that _Alchemickal_ muck."


	21. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty One

  


He left Jack Sparrow still sleeping; sprawled upon his back, his breathing easier. The mark on his neck, that’d started this whole nightmare, had faded to a dull rose; Jack put his lips gently to it before easing himself from the bed, but Sparrow didn’t stir. It’d been a good sleep, a calm night after the horrors of the previous, and Jack’s heart was singing with it; he wanted to jump, laugh, run. The bright morning light seemed part of his luminous mood, and he pounded up the companionway, three steps at a time, eager for fresh air, eager to tell Bill Turner how much better Sparrow seemed.

The sails were full and a strong warm wind was driving the ship forward, all speed and beauty. Turner was on the quarterdeck, watching West at the helm; he turned at Jack’s shouted greeting, and came down to the waist to meet him, his face still drawn with worry.

“He’s had a good night, mate,” said Jack, all sunny smile. “Slept well, he did.”

“Oh, you let him sleep, did you?” said Bill, one corner of his mouth lifting, and Jack chose to think that it was actually supposed to be a friendly dig, even if it did come out a trifle sour.

“Did everything I could t’encourage it,” he asserted. And that was the truth, wasn’t it? He’d done all that Jack Sparrow asked of him. Yes indeed he had; and his heart gave a little lurch at the memory of Sparrow’s voice, all husky and low, asking Jack to touch himself, to show Sparrow just what he was missing; asking Jack to imagine Sparrow’s kisses, his caresses, his body; asking Jack to imagine…

“Has he eaten?” Bill was saying. Jack jerked himself back to reality, and away from that rather disturbing, and yet mysteriously magnetic, memory: _my chest 'gainst your back, with my cock, oh, pushing against that gorgeous arse ..._

“He’s still asleep,” he managed.

“D’you think he’ll be able to take some air, today?”

“Bill, _he is still asleep_. I don’t fuckin’ know. Maybe.”

“Hmm,” said Bootstrap Bill, and he looked a little shifty. “Maybe it’s best to keep him tucked up for a bit, eh?”

“Why?” demanded Jack, who knew a dodgy look when he saw one.

“Well, by my reckoning,” said Bill, with the air of one who was answering a question with perfect reasonability (though, afterwards, Jack recognised that he’d been slipped a non-sequitur), “this afternoon we’ll pass close by a couple of islands that’d suit as accommodation.”

“Spitaels?”

“And the other two,” said Bill with a scowl. As he spoke, there was a scrabbling movement behind them; and, speak of the devil, there was Pieter Spitaels, greasy hair on end in the wind.

“What do you want?” Jack demanded, and, to Bill, “Why ain’t he in the brig?”

Bill snorted. “We put people in the brig because they’re causing trouble, Jack, because they’re a danger; this fool’s a danger only to himself.”

Spitaels coloured at this assessment and pressed his lips together. He ignored Bill, and addressed Jack, which was fairly brave of him, considering. “You said, Mr Shaftoe, that is, I think I heard you say, that Captain Sparrow’s improved, did you not?”

“A little,” said Jack, shortly, “But I’d say that’s _despite_ you, not _because_ of you, mate.”

“But surely,” said Spitaels, with a note of desperation, “if my intervention has been a success, there’s no call to abandon me on some spit of land? There’s nothing out here! It’s a death sentence! How could you do such a thing?” His voice had risen to an anguished squeal by the end of this plea; he was actually wringing his hands, and his residual eyebrows met in a sharp peak in the middle of his furrowed brow.

“Save it,” said Bill shortly, “and bugger off, or I’ll take up Jack’s suggestion, and lock you up for making a nuisance of yourself.”

“But—”

“Shut it, he said,” growled Jack, and took a step towards Spitaels, who gave a little cry and turned tail.

“Mr Shaftoe,” said Bill, looking at Jack with something approaching respect, “You’ve certainly got a way with that fellow.”

“It’s a relationship I’ve put some effort into,” said Jack with a grin. “So, mate, how far are we from Guyana, d’you—oi, what was that for?” Bill, glancing beyond Jack, had stamped quite deliberately on his foot, which was bare, and Bill’s wasn’t. But when Jack, scowling blackly, followed the pirate’s gaze, he saw why; for here, coming slowly up on deck and squinting in the sunlight, was Jack Sparrow.

*

It’d surely do a body good, to see the smiles that wreathed both Jack Shaftoe’s and Bill Turner’s faces, once he could make them out in the blinding sunlight; and Jack’s corpus needed to be done some good. Christ, it felt like he’d been down in the dark for a thousand years, rotting away, and the daylight and the warm wind were balm and challenge both, almost knocking him down, but filling his lungs with sweet clean, bathing his skin in warmth. He sucked in a deep breath; too deep, it made him cough rackingly, and Shaftoe was right there at his side, an arm about him as he hacked and choked and spat up some dark gob of contagion. Fuck.

“’M all right,” he muttered, fractiously, and batted away their helping hands. Honestly, if a man couldn’t walk upon the deck of his own ship without support…!

But it was all a bit dazy and he felt very heavy and slow and unsteady. He leant back, just for a minute, against the wall of the quarterdeck. Everything was moving a bit too fast for him, the roar of the wind and the shouts of the men just a little too loud, the sun there off to larboard just a little too—

Larboard?

Jack held himself very still for a moment and read it all. No, he wasn’t confused. He took in the rig of the sails, the smell of the wind, and the movement of the sea; and he said, in a very calm voice considering, “William Turner, where the _fuck_ do you think you’re taking this ship?”

Shaftoe and Bootstrap exchanged a guilty look, and came up close, looming over him (why were they both so tall, curse it?) as if to shield him from the obvious truth.

“What d’you mean, Jack?” essayed Shaftoe, with a terrifyingly accurate impression of Innocent Confusion; but Bootstrap at least knew better than to even attempt to dispute it.

“We’re going to Guyana,” he said firmly. “And don’t argue it, Jack; we need to find Enoch Root, we need to make you well again.”

Jack’s head was heavy, swimming, and the deck was lurching hard beneath him, which was maybe the worst thing of all—why was the _Pearl_ turning against him, making him feel all unsteady, and obeying someone else’s commands? They already had a fine plan, didn’t they? Had all that naphtha, and Shaftoe was perfectly desperate to have fun with that; had his granddad’s map, the gold, the reef, they had a goal and an aim and they’d all agreed it, and now as soon as his back was turned, they’d plotted some other course; wanted to deliver him into the hands of another bloody Alchemist, as if the last one hadn’t nearly done for him already!

He glared at Bill, and at Shaftoe too, and at the way the two of them stood together shoulder to shoulder, shutting him away from the sight of his ship and his men, making plans together without consulting him, and _how fucking dare they?_ He was flushing hot with rage, with sick irritation, and sharp bile rose in his throat.

“I’m getting better already,” he said, and it sounded surly even to himself. “I neither want nor need Mr Enoch Root and his devilish concoctions. Now turn this ship about and make for St Lucia; and _that_ , Mr Turner, is an _order_.”

Shaftoe folded his arms, and Bootstrap just shook his head, mutely.

“An _order_!” insisted Jack, who could feel veins thumping in his temples and sweat breaking out on his forehead, and really needed Bill to react to this, before Jack’s stomach rebelled entirely and—

They both jumped back as Jack dropped to his knees and vomited some thick mucous filth onto the deck; then Jack Shaftoe was crouched beside him, putting a cool hand to Jack’s head, an arm about his waist, as Bill said, “You ain’t well, Jack, and that’s all there is to’t; and when you are well, you’ll see that we did this only for you.”

Jack glared up at his supposed First Mate, silhouetted against the sun. “Oh, you’re mutinying for my own good, are you?” he spat, and pushed traitorous Jack Shaftoe’s arm from him. Only last night, there Shaftoe’d been, pretending he’d do anything for Jack; baring himself all wicked and lustful and _oh god_ gorgeous, and all the time he’d known that Bill Turner’d turned this ship around, and never told him. Never said a word. Called him _Captain_ and known that Jack was no captain; for his men were doing as they would, with no thought for Jack’s orders.

He was still crouched on the deck, holding onto it for dear life, head spinning, heart pounding, stomach lurching. He didn’t, he supposed, present the picture of health; but he was getting better, wasn’t he? The Pox was receding again? Last night, couldn’t he touch himself just as Shaftoe did, and feel no pain, only sweet delight?

Jack Shaftoe knew that. Why wasn’t he backing Jack up? Why was he suddenly Bill Turner’s brother-in-arms? Damnation, the two of them didn’t even _like_ one another!

Bill knelt now on the deck beside him. “Please, Captain,” he said, all calm and reason, which didn’t help Jack’s mood any. “Go back and rest; trust me, I’ve everything in hand. I’m your man Jack, always; I want to sail on this ship with Jack Sparrow as Captain, and always have done.”

Jack tried to focus on Bill’s brown eyes; said, “Then let me be Captain, Bill. Do as I say.”

The silence was painful, but Bill did not look away. Just whispered, eventually: “No, Jack.”

Jack felt his shoulders slump. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , circled round and round in his head.

If the men knew that Turner’d taken control; if the men knew that Jack’s orders meant nothing, anymore; oh, Christ, how could he ever be Captain again, no matter what Bill Turner might profess his intentions to be?

There had to be a way, there had to be some way to show that his word still mattered.

“Martingale,” he said suddenly. “An’ Stone.”

“What?” said Bootstrap, all confused by this sudden about-face. (Good, thought Jack.)

“I know why they were fighting,” said Jack, “and I want you to give ‘em to me, for punishment; ‘Ve got something far more constructive in mind. They’re good men, Bill; a waste, to lose ‘em to marooning.”

“But Jack, I already told them that—”

Jack Shaftoe spoke up, unexpectedly. “Jack spoke with ‘em, last night, Bill; an’ whatever he said, they’ve changed their tune, I swear. They’ll behave, I’m sure of it; just need some… suitable punishment, is all.” And he put his arm back about Jack, too, for all that it’d been pushed away before; but Jack, still fizzingly angry, shook it off again.

“All right,” said Bill, slowly. “I’ve a place in mind to put Spitaels ashore, this afternoon; go and rest now, Jack, and eat, and I’ll call you when we reach it; we can deal with them all, in one, and put it behind us. Get on with… with what we need to do.”

‘Twasn’t much, but it was something; it was enough. All Jack needed was a good piece of theatre, of spectacle, and he’d still be Captain in the minds of his men, he knew it. No matter what disobedience Bill Turner and Jack Shaftoe cooked up between ‘em.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be below.” He got slowly to his feet, and gave Jack Shaftoe a hard look. “And I’ll thank you both to see that I’m not disturbed,” he added; and did not look back at Shaftoe’s face as he went below.

*

Injustice. Injustice, injustice pure and simple, and everyone knew that the Good Lord despised such a thing. That He would not punish a man who took just vengeance; who sought an eye for an eye.

Pieter had packed all his books, all his equipment, all his ingredients, back into their varied cases and chests; he would not leave a single thing for these pirates, for that hateful Jack Shaftoe. Who was no sort of Alchemist, in Pieter’s opinion; if he had any Knowledge at all, it was only a knowledge of destruction and war. He was not, like Pieter, a man of healing. He had no love for, no understanding of, the Great Mysteries. He was a charlatan and a rogue. He had forced Pieter to attempt the impossible, and then—even though, against all odds, Pieter had apparently _succeeded!_ —he sought to punish Pieter for his efforts, punish him in a way that was no different to murder. For what were the chances that Pieter could survive, alone, with no provisions, on some godforsaken islet, until some other ship happened along? And if it did, why then, might it not be populated by men just as mad and barbarous as these?

Pieter stifled a sob, and clutched the three black glass vials so hard that his fingers turned white.

_An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth._ If they would send Pieter Spitaels to his death, then he would leave death behind him also. It was only just.

He flattened himself into a doorway, thinking he heard voices; but no, they were above his head, up on the orlop deck. There was no one down here, in the hold, among the barrels. The barrels of water; of small beer; of rum.

Pieter Spitaels would be his very own avenging angel.


	22. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Two

  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow had taken considerable care of his appearance; so much so, indeed, that when Bill Turner banged on his cabin door to say that there was land in sight, Jack'd merely called that he'd be up in a moment, and waited for the sound of Bill's retreating footsteps before resuming his preparations. No use in hurrying: all to the good, to remind them (and Bill in particular) of who commanded the _Black Pearl_.

He'd donned his cleanest shirt, and a pair of breeches that, though elderly, were unstained by the depredations of the past few days. He'd washed his face and reblackened his eyes; tugged his comb through sundry parts of unbraided hair, burnished a few of the duller ornaments, and tweaked the rest to shew to best advantage. Jack had paused when his fingers encountered that newest addition, that little fragment of bone, _Jack Shaftoe's_ bone, so cruelly parted from its owner and so sweetly bestowed by him 'pon Jack's person. Jack's fingers had twitched with the urge to rip this traitorous memento from his hair and cast it aside. But he could not bring himself to do it: could not, yet, bring himself to renounce Jack Shaftoe, for all his perfidy. Could still (though this was surely some remnant Pox-vision, muddling his thoughts) scarce believe that Shaftoe had turned against him. Not to mention Bill Turner, his staunchest supporter through good times and lean, his oldest friend.

A pox -- a Pox -- 'pon the pair of 'em, thought Jack bitterly; and made sure that there was no sign nor signal about his person that might mark him as gulled, betrayed, played for a fool. He'd deal with Shaftoe and Turner later. One problem at a time: and this afternoon's business was the sentencing of Martingale and Stone.

The sun was confoundedly bright, and there was little shade: they'd slackened sail, now the isles were near. The _Pearl_ was moving slowly and sedately, not lurching and kicking as she had before, but Jack still felt oddly unbalanced.

There was a murmur of greetings and good wishes as Jack made his way aft to the quarterdeck. He listened hard for mockery or mutiny, but heard none: just West saying, "Glad you're recovered, Captain," and Gill calling, from the back of the crowd, that it took more than a bloody Alchemist to bring Jack Sparrow down.

True, true, and Jack was immeasurably cheered to hear it. Perhaps it'd just been Turner and Shaftoe conspiring 'gainst him -- p'rhaps Spitaels, too, though Shaftoe'd made a good show of loathing the worm. Perhaps the rot had not yet infected the whole company ( _his_ company, damn it) after all.

Jack ascended the quarterdeck steps, and paused (that brief effort having taken its toll) to look back at his crew, assembled in the ship's waist. Christ, they were a scruffy gang: but there wasn't a shifty look, or a sidling refusal to meet his gaze, among 'em. Not down in the waist, at least: and Bill, over by the helm, looked back at him steadily, like the good First Mate he'd been for so long.

Jack glanced at Shaftoe, standing there next to Bill; but Shaftoe was more interested, it seemed, in the low, scrubby islands that loomed above the waves off to starboard. Jack looked away, and tried not to think of the evening they'd found Jack Shaftoe on just such an isle, shooting exotically colourful rockets into the twilight. Even now, Shaftoe exerted a powerful fascination over him, just as he'd done that very first night. But it would pass.

Spitaels, his pale skin nastily sunburnt -- the redness brought out the vivid purpling of his black eye -- was up on the quarterdeck too, though Jack noticed that he kept as far as he could from Shaftoe and Turner, eyeing them fearfully as though they might set upon him without warning. Jack wouldn't lift a finger to stop 'em. He gave Spitaels a hard look, daring him to say a word or -- worse -- attempt more Treatment. The Alchemist cowered back against the rail, swallowing hard. Marooning'll do him good, thought Jack. Put some backbone in him.

Martingale and Stone, perhaps less wanting in that department, had been brought up from the brig and stood shackled next to the mainmast, with Grey and Bull to guard them. Their sojourn below did not seem to have marked them in any lasting way, though Martingale looked peaky under his tan. Repentant, with any luck: but that wouldn't be sufficient, not for Jack's purposes.

"Well, gentlemen," he said to them both, pitching his voice so that every man could hear him clearly. The words tore at his throat like so many vicious barbed hooks. "What d'you call this unmannerly brawling, then? Can you -- either of you -- give me one good reason why I shouldn't follow Mr Turner's suggestion, and set you ashore to fight it out in private?"

Martingale just muttered "No," head down: but Stone, all flushed, said, "Captain?"

"Aye?" said Jack. Christ, he was thirsty, and his stomach muscles hurt from the sheer act of speaking. He swallowed, tasting bile. "Go on, man: out with it!"

"Just to say, Captain," said Stone, reddening more under the attention of his shipmates. "It weren't Jamie's fault, not to be fair: it's not right to send him away."

"Not right, eh?" said Jack, folding his arms across his chest. "Reckon you've a better idea of justice than your captain, Mr Stone?"

Stone spluttered, and shook his head. Martingale was looking at him, with a hesitant half-smile, but Jack didn't think Stone could see it, not staring down at his own two feet like that.

"Truth is," announced Jack, "it's a right shame to lose two good men over some petty argument: we're down a fair few anyhow, since Saint Lucia." He bowed his head in brief remembrance, and there was a strained moment of silence. "So I've another sort of reckoning in mind. A more _Biblical_ reckoning."

He paused a moment, to give 'em a chance to speculate about what such a judgment might entail: not too long, or they'd start scaring one another with half-remembered horror stories. The Bible was full of 'em, wasn't it, and some of Martingale's less savoury habits might warrant excessively gory punishments. And he was hardly the only man on board who ...

"Jack?"

Jack had turned to face the men, turned away from Bill and Shaftoe so's not to see their expressions: yet here was Shaftoe at his side, proffering a wooden cup of clean water, saying quietly, "Take a drink, Jack: it's hot out here, an' you ain't been well." Just as if he cared: just as though he hadn't been standing there all cosy with Bill, conniving in Mr Turner's takeover bid.

"Thankee," said Jack coolly, taking the cup and flicking a look at Shaftoe's face. No sign of treachery there: nothing but that honest straightforward Shaftoe-ness, solemn with concern (pretended concern) for Jack's well-being. He looked tired, still, though they'd both slept soundly last --

Jack ruthlessly suppressed all thoughts of last night, and how they'd _tired_ themselves. He gulped down the water -- oh, the bliss of it in his parched mouth! -- and handed the cup back to Shaftoe with a nod. Spitaels was watching them thirstily, and Jack, despite everything, could not suppress a smirk at the man's discomfort. No time to dwell on it, though; the rumble of chatter was becoming louder. Time to continue.

"Unshackle 'em both, lads," he directed, and Grey and Bull bent to their tasks, unpinning the heavy irons on Martingale's wrists, and then on Stone's.

"Now," Jack went on, tilting his hat so that the sun -- confound this westerly course! -- did not dazzle him. "Seems to me that you two gentlemen _owe_ one another."

"I've already said --" began Martingale heatedly.

"Quiet," suggested Jack, pinning Martingale with a steely look that silenced him most effectively. "As I was saying, the two of you have some _settling_ to do. Mr Stone, which of you struck the first blow? ... No, no, I don't want to hear it from anyone else, lads, so you can all keep your mouths shut. Mr Stone?"

Jack knew the answer already, but he was proud of Stone for the way he stood up straighter, there in front of everyone, and said, "Me, Captain: 'twas I struck 'im first, on account of --"

"I'm not interested in your motivations, Mr Stone," Jack interrupted. "I'd be obliged if you'd hold still, now; James Martingale, perhaps you'd be so kind as to serve Stone, here, with a blow not exceeding the ferocity of the one you had from him the other night."

"What?" said Martingale.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Hit him," he said, slow and clear. "Eye for an eye, Mr Martingale; heard of that, have you?"

"Aye, Captain," said Martingale. He eyed Stone doubtfully, and for a moment Jack thought he'd muff it: but then, without warning (good man) he swung at Stone, and the dull sound of fist meeting flesh was clear and unpleasant in the loaded silence.

Stone stumbled back a step or two, hand to his face -- Martingale'd got him just in the same spot, high on one cheekbone, though in Stone's case it did little to detract from his looks -- but he didn't cry out, or (as Jack'd half-expected) go for Jamie Martingale: just stood there, shaking his head to clear it, looking up at his Captain.

The men were muttering now, for it must be clear to all but the most stupid of 'em that the second sentence handed down from Jack Sparrow's High Court would follow the same pattern. Martingale knew it, for sure, from the way he was looking up at Jack, all pale and resolute. Good.

"Someone lend Mr Stone a knife," instructed Jack. "Come along, gents, we haven't got all day." He drummed his fingers on the rail as Grey took a dagger from his boot and handed it, hilt-first, to Stone.

Stone held it as though he'd never held a knife before, and turned a bewildered face to Martingale, and then to Jack.

"I won't do it," he said. "I shan't."

* * *

Christ alone knew what was holding Jack Sparrow together, after his near-collapse this very morning: spit and vinegar, no doubt. Bill couldn't help but be proud of his captain, never mind this temporary (Bill crossed his fingers) difference between 'em. He could see the effort it was costing Jack to stand up there in front of 'em all, presiding over this rough theatre of retribution. Could hear, in Sparrow's harsh voice, the damage that'd been done by bloody Spitaels' filthy brews. Oh, the men'd never notice it: they all thought Jack invincible. But Bill wasn't blind: he saw the tension in Jack Sparrow's whole body, and the way that Stone's refusal made that tension ebb, just a little.

"Disobeying a direct order, Mr Stone?" said Sparrow, all polite disbelief. Bill squirmed at the echo of his earlier words. "Why, a more _rig'rous_ sort of man might take that as mutiny."

Poor Stone was shifting from foot to foot, his face beetroot-red. He muttered something.

"Speak up, man," Sparrow advised him, with that nasty sharp smile of his.

"Don't mean it that way, Captain," said Stone thickly. "Put me ashore, aye: but don't make me strike 'im: he ain't done nothing. An' ... an' ... I can't," he finished, and flung the dagger down to clatter on the deck.

"Didn't stop you the other night, now, did it?" Sparrow pointed out. He was swaying a little, Bill could see.

Stone didn't answer, and Grey stepped to his side, jangling the shackles in his hand, looking up questioningly at Jack Sparrow.

For a long moment, Sparrow said nothing: then he looked over at Bill, who chose to take that as an invitation to approach.

Sparrow's eyes, shaded by the brim of his new hat, were unusually black and impenetrable, and he was not smiling at all now. "I say we keep 'em both, Mr Turner: what say you?"

"Aye, Captain," said Bill, putting as much loyalty and obedience as he could manage into his voice without being mocked for outright subservience. "An' what about Mr Spitaels, eh?" He glanced over at where Spitaels stood, apart from them all, at the edge of the quarterdeck. "He going ashore?"

Sparrow swallowed, and swallowed again, and Bill fought back the urge to hurry him below and make him rest. "We'll keep 'im for a bit, eh?" he said. "Never know when he might come in handy."

Bill looked doubtfully at Spitaels, who -- judging by his appalled expression -- obviously hadn't heard Sparrow's words clearly; then back at his captain, who was looking horribly sallow. "Aye, Captain," he said anyway.

"Mr Stone," said Jack Sparrow, stepping to one side to lean, affectedly casual, against the rail, "you're on galley duty 'til we've another cook." There was a concerted groan from the men, and a few remarks along the lines of, "'E'll be the death of us!" and "None of that bloody porridge, mate!" But Stone was beaming, all relieved; and so was Martingale, though since he'd been spared a nasty knife-wound that was hardly surprising.

"An' you, Jamie Martingale: you took a knife to your fellow man, and I don't care for that kind of argument on board my ship," Sparrow went on, deadly serious now. Poor Martingale'd blanched again -- skin like a girl, thought Bill, with a private smile -- and was staring up at Sparrow as though his life were in the balance.

"Reckon Stone'll need a bit of help, in the galley," said Sparrow. "Mind you do as you're bid, Jamie: and if there's a single quarrel, if you can't work together, you'll be off this ship when next we make port. Both of you. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

You had to admire Jack Sparrow: sick as a dog, gripping the rail white-knuckled and visibly shaking, and yet he had the crew in the palm of his hand, clever as a play-actor with his voice, and cunning too. The men were cheering -- Martingale and Stone were both well-liked -- and, to cap it all, the two miscreants were shaking hands like gentlemen. Bill shook his head, grinning.

"And, as you'll all be aware," Sparrow went on loudly, shooting Bill an unreadable look, "we've had a change of plan; we're headed for Guyana, now, to pick up Mr Burton and Enoch Root. We'll be ..."

"Bill?" murmured Jack Shaftoe from his left. "C'n I have a word?"

"What is it, Mr Shaftoe?" said Bill irritably, moving aside so that they stood with their backs to the crowd. Then, as he got a look at Shaftoe's face -- in shadow now, but horribly pale and drawn -- "What's up with you?"

"I ain't feeling so good," Shaftoe admitted. "Something I ate, maybe."

"Get some rest," Bill advised him; then, noting Shaftoe's brief, unhappy glance over at Jack Sparrow, "You're no use to _him_ if you're dead on your feet."

"Ah, but you heard 'im earlier, Bill: he's none too happy with me. An' I reckon he'll be needing the bed."

Bill wanted to protest this reminder of his captain's sleeping arrangements; but Shaftoe looked so dejected that he could not bring himself to argue.

"Have my bunk," he offered instead. "I won't be needing it 'til later: and I reckon you'll be doing me a favour, Jack."

"How's that?" said Shaftoe, with a weak smile.

"Well," said Bill, grinning, "I'll lay you'll keep my cabin-mate away better'n anything. Shame he's staying, ain't it?"

"Aye," said Shaftoe. "Aye, it is."


	23. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty Three

  


The circumstances under which Jack Shaftoe'd been brought into this world of woe were such that, simply by dint of making it all the way to his fifth birthday and still being both quick and in possession of all four limbs, he'd already cheated some fairly major odds. He'd suffered, as all children in the less salubrious parts of London did, from a wide selection of variously disgusting infections and infestations. In short, he'd been incessantly sick; had spent the larger part of his first five years hacking, coughing, sneezing, scratching, spitting, sweating, squalling and puking. As was expected.

But once he'd made it to five, then adulthood became a reasonable goal, and the phenomenally impressive immune system that was required to get one out of the dangerous clutches of seventeenth century infancy came into play. And, until the Pox had sunk its indelicate claws into him, he'd been quite loathsomely healthy. He simply wasn't _used_ to being ill.

None of which was any excuse, really, for just how sorry Jack felt for himself as he lay, curled into a foetal ball, on Bill Turner's scratchy blankets. Something wretched was occurring deep in his guts, something apparently involving munitions, tunnelling, excavations and the like; he set his teeth and curled tighter, arms folded protectively over his belly, as glittery droplets of sweat slid down his temples. He was glad that there was no-one else about, and therefore no particular call for stoicism.

Thinking of which put him in mind of Jack Sparrow's impressive turn up there on the quarterdeck. Could anyone, save Jack, possibly appreciate the depth of stiff determination that that little masquerade must've required? Oh, Bill Turner, to a point; but he hadn't seen the half of what Sparrow'd suffered in the last few days, and couldn't know just what an astonishing feat he was witnessing.

For a moment, Jack forgot his griping cramps, and made to sit up, seized by a sudden urge to go and see how brave Jack Sparrow was doing. But then he subsided, as a fresh wave of spiky pain crashed into him, and (near as painful) he recalled just how Sparrow'd looked at him, up there on deck. Cold and black his stare was, flinty with disappointment.

_'T'ain't fair, Jack-my-love,_ sulked the Imp. _You din't change your course, steer and veer off Sparrow-path, did you now? Not your idea. Precious Turner's plan, so why's that icylook yourn, eh?_

This failed to comfort Jack, who frankly felt bad for not having been the one to suggest the whole Guyana idea in the first place. It was the right thing to do, and surely Sparrow could—would—see that?

Jack sucked air through gritted teeth as sharp knifey pangs sliced through him; he swallowed bile. Damnation, he was tired of sickness, and weakness, and corporeal mutinies. Everything had seemed so bright, a week ago; a wide worldful of promise and pleasure, there with laughing Jack Sparrow at his side, wild and fearless. Now look at them, both huddled in separate cabins, sick and wretched, Sparrow bristly with foolish anger and Jack hiding here, as though he'd done aught to deserve it.

Fuck it. He _didn't_ deserve it. He wanted to be by Jack Sparrow; to break this needless tension between the two of them.

He timed his departure from the bunk to coincide with a slight diminution in the pain in his belly, and staggered out into the passageway. Three doors down, only three doors; as he came close, he could hear Sparrow retching and cursing. He pushed the door open, and saw the pirate lying half on, half off his cot, bracing himself with one hand to the floor, the other hand holding his hair as he hawked and spat into the sour woody dampness of the sick bucket.

Sparrow glanced up with a bright and fevery eye; "Go away," was all he said.

Jack ignored this opening sally, and brought over a bottle of water from the table. "Here," he said, "Rinse."

"What do you care if I'm rinsed? You needn't think you're getting anywhere near me," said Sparrow, though he did it anyway.

The mysterious injustice of it cut to the quick, not to mention the agonising idea of never getting anywhere near Jack Sparrow again; Jack wasn't about to take that lying down. Though sitting down might be appropriate, according to the pain in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, and crouched beside the bed, demanding, "What's got into you, Jack? Where's this coming from? Last night, wasn't it all good, weren't we…?"

"I'll tell you what you were last night, Mr Shaftoe; an admirable liar, that's what. But I've had enough of your playacting now, so spare yourself the effort, and just get out of my sight."

The words were harsh, and Sparrow's jaw was set; there was a guarded misery in his eyes that made Jack want to shake him. Or worse. Yes, there was a definite temptation towards worse; and the hand that he put to Sparrow's bare shoulder, though it meant to be reassuring, gripped that warm smooth flesh hard enough to bruise. "Jack, you're talking crap. I meant every word I said last night, you idiot. Meant it then, and now, too."

"Ever heard of a lie of omission?" said Sparrow, all vicious and needly. Jack dropped his eyes. "Are you going to try and tell me that our new course was all a great surprise, are you? Save it, mate. I saw you and Bill Turner, up there. A cosy pair now, ain't you." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. All bare, he was, all elegant limbs and too-visible bone; Jack could not help but lick his lips, and Sparrow scowled to see it, pulling the sheet irritably over his lap. Jack flushed.

He couldn't deny that he'd known of the course change. Well, he _could_ , having long ago mastered the art of Aggrieved Innocence, but in this case saw no long term gain from it. "Fair enough," he admitted with a shrug, "I knew we were off to seek Enoch. But what else would you have us do, Jack, with you near to death? D'you think we care so little for you that we'd sail off on some treasure hunt and leave you to expire? Don't be such a damned fool, man, we'd—"

"'M not bloody dying now, am I?"

"You ain't magically better, either, you're still puking like a babe." Something lurched and grumbled in Jack's own vitals, as if in sympathy with this thought, and he swallowed hard.

"I'm well enough to give an order, even if it's fuckin' ignored," said Sparrow, glaring daggers. Jack glared right back.

"It was a bloody stupid order, it deserved to be ignored."

Perhaps he shouldn't've said that; Sparrow flushed with rage, and leapt to his feet (recalling a second later that he was relying upon the sheet to preserve his dignity, and clutching it to himself; Jack silently cursed the automatic swerve of his eyeballs). "It... _deserved to be ignored?_ Your captain's orders _deserve to be ignored?_ Who the holy _fuck_ do you think you are, Jack Shaftoe?"

Jack shot to standing, near explosive with anger. Of all the pig-headed, self-absorbed— "I _think_ ," he cried, "that I'm the man who's spent the last month in your damned bed, that's who; the man who's pledged his loyalty to you, the man who fucks you, Jack, and the man who should be trusted to care for you!"

"Fucking," said Sparrow acidly, poking Jack in the chest with a long spindly finger, "is just fucking, mate; it doesn't give you leave to ignore my orders, to _mutiny_ , you treacherous--"

Oh, that was the final straw, that prodding finger; Jack put a palm to the centre of Sparrow's chest and pushed him away. Sparrow stumbled back, then righted himself, and then, much to Jack's surprise, stepped quickly forward with a sharp and nasty right hook to Jack's kidney, followed by a tackle that crashed them both, shouting, to the floor, the sheet tangled between them. Jack fell hard, striking his head on the boards; was dizzy for one brief moment, and then years of instinct kicked in and he hooked an arm round Sparrow's neck, an ankle about the other man's knee, and tried to roll him over. Sparrow wriggled and bit and tried to headbutt Jack, who luckily saw it coming and received only a hard skull to the cheekbone.

"You and fucking Bill, plotting and—"

"You're a fucking idiot, Sparrow, you're mad, can't you see that—"

Jack gave a great heave and they rolled over; he tried to pin Sparrow's wrists, but got a nasty punch to his ribs, and then a bite to his shoulder, and he cried out, and Sparrow shoved him over again; they wrestled and grunted and kicked and fought and panted and Jack was brimming with energy and anger and flickering memories as the sheet was kicked and pulled away, and there was naked Jack Sparrow braced and wriggling upon him; and the Imp, seizing a brief moment in which Jack's red rage overwhelmed all his sense, convinced Jack's right hand to fly out, to seize a handful of tangled hair, and to pull Jack Sparrow's snarling mouth down to his own; his left, to splay firm over Sparrow's waist, to hold him still and close as Jack kissed him, harsh and hard.

For a moment, Sparrow resisted, forcing Jack to stoically ignore several more blows to his ribs; and then all the fight went out of him, though none of the passion, and he was kissing Jack back, still biting, still panting, and canting his hips against Jack. He tasted musty, sour, unwell; Jack was sure he was the same, but could not care. To have that beautiful mouth on his; oh, that made everything else fade into irrelevance, made the whole world dim and darken and retreat, till there was nothing left in Jack's mind save this little warm bubble of Sparrow and Shaftoe, holding onto one another, devouring one another, all digging fingers and swiping tongues and winding legs and sweet warm glory.

*

It wasn't fair, wasn't fair; how could Jack keep a grip on his just and righteous anger, when Jack Shaftoe wouldn't play straight? When Jack Shaftoe turned rage into desire with one blink of his wild blue eyes, one touch of his hot dry lips, one sudden sure caress from his poor mutilated hand?

He couldn't; after a moment, did not even attempt it, but let himself be carried down into the heart of the vortex, and returned Shaftoe's kiss, even though his fists were still clenched tight. In seconds, seconds, he was hard, and the nakedness he'd been trying so determinedly to conceal became a wondrous asset, as he writhed atop Jack Shaftoe. Jack Shaftoe, who'd just roared at the top of his voice, _I'm the man who fucks you, Jack_ : surely, surely no one nearby could've missed that one, and it made Jack all sparky warm to think of that. Even if, even if—

But Jack Shaftoe lifted his chin, breaking the kiss, and said breathlessly, "Fucking ain't just fucking, not with you and me; and I'd never betray you, Jack, you're wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and don't you dare say it again, don't you fucking think it, it ain't who I am." He was glaring, scowling at Jack as he spoke, so fierce and fractious that, that…

…that Jack believed him, with all his heart; and belief came warm and rising, like a flock of tiny birds, like a sunrise deep inside the cage of his ribs. _Fucking ain't just fucking, not with you and me._

"But if I have to mutiny to make you well, to save you; then I fucking well _will_ ," said Shaftoe, and he kissed Jack again. Kissed him, and stretched his hand down to the curve of Jack's arse, and took a great heaving breath at the touch of it.

Jack's head was spinny from the fight, and being so sick still, and amongst all the feelings of want and relief there was definitely a lurking element of nausea to contend with, as well. He gave Jack Shaftoe a last lingering kiss, and rolled off him. They lay, side by side, breathing hard.

"No call for mutiny," said Jack at last. "I'll agree it. Guyana it is. And Jack… Jack, you're right, it ain't just fucking. I din't mean it; and I'm sorry for it."

"Fair enough," said Shaftoe, and his eyes met Jack's for one long sunny moment; then he rolled over onto his side, and made a grunting sound.

"You all right?" asked Jack, propping himself up on his elbows and frowning; now that he looked at Shaftoe without a mist of anger distorting his vision, he had to admit that the man didn't look up to his usual standard of animal perfection.

"Got a gripe," said Shaftoe, through gritted teeth. "Fuckin' ironic, after telling everyone you had one."

"But I have," confessed Jack. "Stabbing pain, right about here?" He poked Shaftoe's belly, and Shaftoe groaned and kicked him. "Aye, same as me," said Jack. "Puke, mate, you'll feel better."

Mysteriously, even as he said it, a sound of vomiting came from the deck above their heads; Shaftoe sat up, retching as Jack passed him the bucket, and next thing, there was a knock on the door. Before he'd even given permission to enter, the door was flung open, and there was Jamie Martingale, paler than ever, and all doubled over. He obviously felt bad; did not even bother to smirk or blush at the sight of his captain, naked on the floor with shirtless Jack Shaftoe.

"Captain… oh, Captain Sparrow, something's happened, loads of the men are gettin' sick, really sick!"

"Stone started in the galley already, has he?" said Jack, but this didn't even raise a smile from Martingale. Things must be dire.

"We were down there, trying to figure out something for supper; but it ain't even made yet," said Martingale, leaning against the doorframe and wincing horribly. "And then I got this dreadful pain, and I went up on deck; and there's West the same, and Staines, and Joe Henry sick as a parrot, and I don't think Mr Turner's feeling too fine, though he claims he's all right. And he sent me to his cabin for Mr Shaftoe, but he wasn't there, and I thought he might be here, but…" he gestured over at Shaftoe, who was vomiting in impressive profusion.

"I'll be right up," said Jack, though the mere idea of it wilted him, and all he wanted, in the whole world, was to crawl into his bed. Couldn't let Bill deal with it all; that'd be yet another reason for him to be ignoring Jack's orders. For Jack could bring himself to forgive Jack Shaftoe; but Bill, oh, Bill was his _First Mate_! Bill knew what it was, to've ignored Jack's clear instruction; Bill knew exactly what he'd done with his whispered _No, Jack_.

"Go, Jamie," he made himself say. "Go, and I'll be right up."


	24. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Four

  
Jack, quite emptied now of every morsel of food and drop of drink he'd consumed in his entire life, lay half-asleep, all sour and aching, on Sparrow's cot. The room reeked of sickness, and from the deck above came a variety of stomach-wrenching sounds as one or another of the company succumbed to the same blight that'd wracked Jack so comprehensively. From above, too, came the indistinct murmur of Jack Sparrow's voice, presumably quizzing each man on his recent dietary habits.

_Let Bill handle it, mate: come to bed,_ Jack wanted to say: but did not. For one thing, he could hardly muster the strength to breathe, let alone to holler instructions through six inches of solid wood. For another, Bill'd already taken too many liberties with his temporary command, and Jack knew that Sparrow, up there, was concerned with the reclamation of his authority, as much as investigating the bout of sickness that'd gripped them all.

The pain in Jack's belly had eased enough that he dozed for a while, dreaming of pathless forests that gradually turned to desert around him, and of a hot sun beating down, dazzlingly bright, on a landscape populated only by desiccated corpses. One of the corpses stirred as Jack approached it, and turned a gleaming dark eye on him, and somehow its lipless, blackened mouth formed husky words: "Water," it said, "watch the water."

Jack jolted awake, gasping, from this apocalyptic scene. He was sure that Jack Sparrow was actually speaking to him: he looked around, blinking, but found himself alone. Gauging the progress of the sunlight along the wall, Jack concluded that he'd slept for at least an hour. Sparrow, at least, must be feeling a little better if he were still on deck after so long, and Jack found himself much heartened by this realisation.

Slowly, with much sighing and creaking, Jack wobbled to his feet. He eyed his shirt, filthy and foetid, but could not muster the strength to put it on. He felt light-headed and oddly removed from his body -- touch of fever, no doubt, from the gripe -- and strangely reluctant to leave the cool gloom of the cabin. But it _did_ smell horrible, down here: and he needed a drink, and Jack Sparrow's revivifying smile.

For a moment, coming up onto the deck, Jack thought he might be hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes, but the vision, disturbingly reminiscent of his dream, remained: fully half of the _Black Pearl_ 's company were strewn across the deck, sitting, or lying, or curled groaning around themselves. The odour of vomit was not appreciably less than in the cabin, and Jack's stomach heaved in sympathy.

"How're you feeling, Mr Shaftoe?" came a voice, and there, there was Jack Sparrow, pale and drawn but still better than he'd looked for several days. His new hat was tilted to shade his eyes, and Jack envied him for that: though it was late afternoon, the sun was still mortally bright.

"Better'n I was," he said, edging into the shadow of the mainsail. "Parched, though. Any idea  
what's got into everyone?" He gestured at the slumped figure of Jamie Martingale, propped against the foot of the mainmast, sweat beading on his brow.

Sparrow shrugged, and Jack's eyes were drawn to the elegant line of his collarbone. "That barrel of salted pork, maybe: Staines was on galley duty yesterday, they tell me, and his nose ain't all it could be."

"But you've not been eating," argued Jack. "An' it's got you just the same as the rest of us." He looked up at the rigging, where Bill Turner -- distinctive in a shirt that actually seemed, to Jack, as though it was _emanating_ yellowness -- was directing a few of the men to bend the upper topgallant and catch the freshening breeze. "Mind you, some of us don't seem too bad."

Sparrow frowned, and gave Jack a sharp look. "Good thing too, mate," he said, "or we'd be dead in the water. Bill's got a cast iron gut, I swear it: never seen him laid low by anything."

"Lucky fellow," said Jack feelingly. "I need a drink: you had anything?"

"No; fetch me a cup, will you?"

"Surely," said Jack, smiling, and set his hand on Sparrow's shoulder -- enjoying the way that Sparrow leaned, almost imperceptibly, into the touch -- before heading over to the water-barrel outside the galley.

Pieter Spitaels was leaning on the rail, staring out at the darkening ocean: he glanced back at the sound of Jack's footsteps, and flinched.

"Thought you'd be cooking up some filthy brew to _cure_ us all," jibed Jack, dipping a cup into the barrel and trying not to scoop up too many dead flies. "Seeing as your last cure worked so well."

Spitaels moistened his lips and tried to speak, but only a batrachian croak emerged.

Jack drank deep -- oh, the water felt blissfully cool in his dry throat, and soothed the ache in his belly -- and dipped the cup again. Spitaels was watching him fixedly, and Jack felt an unaccustomed philanthropic impulse. "Drink?" he said, offering the cup.

"No!" wheezed Spitaels, pressed back against the rail.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Why not? 'Fraid I'll poison you?" He laughed, and gulped more water, not caring that it spilt from the corners of his mouth. Spitaels looked as dried-up and leathery as the bodies in his dream: Jack hoped that the gripe had visited him particularly violently.

"Not thirsty," said Spitaels, with a paroxysmal smile.

Jack shrugged. "Your funeral, mate," he said, and dipped the cup for a third time, ready to carry back to Jack Sparrow.

"How long," croaked Spitaels, "til we reach land?"

"Christ knows," said Jack. "In a hurry to be let off, are you? Or perhaps you're keen to discuss that _cure_ of yours with Enoch the Red?"

Spitaels' eyes widened. "Enoch Root?"

"Aye," said Jack, grinning. "I'll lay he'll be _ever_ so interested to hear of the effects of your Treatment. Him and Captain Sparrow? Like _that_ , they are." (Jack held up his hand, two fingers clamped together.) "He'll be _dying_ to meet you." And, chuckling at Spitaels' stricken expression, he headed back to the quarterdeck, to Sparrow's side.

* * *

"Pieter Spitaels ain't drinking," said Shaftoe, and he held onto the cup when Jack would've taken it from him.

"And I'm supposed to care for his well-being, am I?" demanded Jack, fingers twitching with the desire to seize the cup and drain it dry. Dear Lord, he was thirsty, and the sun felt hot as noon, though it was low in the sky. There was a heaviness in the air, too, despite the breeze that carried them briskly to bloody Guyana. Jack could taste a storm coming, and he cast an eye around, mentally totting up the men who might reasonably be expected to haul on ropes as opposed to heaving out their guts.

"Still reckon we should've tossed the little shit overboard," said Shaftoe truculently. "'S a rum deal, him not drinking."

"Not even Pieter Spitaels, of whom I understand you have no very high opinion, is fool enough to poison the water on a ship that's carrying him as passenger, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack. "Give me that cup, eh?"

Shaftoe relinquished the cup, scowling. "The gripe'd eased, earlier," he complained, "and I swear it's back with a vengeance."

Jack set down the empty cup and peered at Shaftoe. True enough, he looked sallow, and the glorious golden expanse of his chest was slick with sweat. From nowhere, or so it seemed, sprang the memory of washing Jack Shaftoe clean, that time after de Braxas: of wetting the cloth in clean warm water, and gently cleaning every inch ... Jack licked his lips, and winced as a cramp seized his stomach, eradicating that sweet reminiscence with a wave of acrid black pain.

"Just supposing you're right," he said, gritting his teeth and willing his stomach to quietitude, "what ... hmmm."

"What?" said Shaftoe, stepping closer. "What is it, Jack?"

"Look at me," instructed Jack.

"Gladly," said Shaftoe with a leer, staring hard at Jack's groin as though his gaze alone constituted a caress. "My turn tonight, is it?"

"No, you saucy -- well, maybe: no, Mr Shaftoe, look into my _eyes_ ," said Jack, all enlivened by Shaftoe's attention.

Shaftoe's gaze ascended, slowly, until Jack could see again what'd perturbed him.

"How're your eyes?" he asked. "Notice anything ... strange?"

"It's a bit bright out here," confessed Shaftoe.

"Your pupils are huge," said Jack. "'Tis a wonder you can see at all. Like a man in a dark room, you are."

Shaftoe was frowning, and peering at Jack, who blinked and scowled. " _Yours_ ain't no better," said Shaftoe accusingly. "Eyes all black an' wicked, Jack, like ... like ..."

"Like a fine lady," said Jack Sparrow slowly. "A fine lady who doses herself with belladonna, to darken her gaze."

"Belladonna?" said Shaftoe, eyes all dark and wide. "That's poison, ain't it?"

"Aye," whispered Jack.

Shaftoe's foot knocked against the empty cup as he stepped back: he glanced down at it, and then back at Jack.

"Puke it up, mate," he said urgently. "Get it out of you."

Jack's stomach thought this a fine notion, and in short order the two of them were hanging (a sensible distance apart) over the rail, forcing every drop of bile and fluid from their aching guts. Jack, having drunk less of the water, finished first: he leant against the solid sun-baked wood, gazing east along the creamy broad line of the _Pearl_ 's wake. And there, in the darkening sky, he saw what he'd been expecting, anticipating, all afternoon; saw salvation in a grey smudge, far away but coming fast.

"Round up whoever's strongest, and have 'em chuck that barrel overboard," he told Shaftoe, who was wiping his mouth and swaying.

"We'll not last without --"

"That's an order, Mr Shaftoe!" snapped Jack, scowling at the instant insolence of the look that Shaftoe gave him. "Jack," he said more quietly, "there's a storm headed our way, so --"

"So we can all be _sea-sick_ , as well?"

Jack's jaw clenched against the impulse to yell; his fingers curled with the desire to take hold of Jack Shaftoe and, and ...

"So we'll have fresh water, Mr Shaftoe," he said, with what he considered admirable restraint. "Fresh, and plenty of it: and 'sides, we'll make landfall all the sooner."

Shaftoe was nodding, and his mouth had lost its sneery curl. "Righto," he said.

"And, Jack? Tell the men that something died, in the water: no need to get 'em all worked up, is there?"

"Plenty of need," said Shaftoe. "I told you --"

"Save it, Mr Shaftoe," interrupted Jack (who had seldom felt less inclined to mercy or clemency vis-à-vis Spitaels, but who -- given the rapidity with which the storm was approaching -- had other priorities at this time). "We've weather to weather before morning comes: and if we all see the light of day, why, _then_ we'll speak of justice."

Already the air was quickening, turbulent, and there was a sudden cool gust out of the east that set the sails cracking and roaring. Jack glanced up; the maintop was limned in gold against the gathering dark, and Bill was shouting orders to the men who were still aloft. Good man. _Bloody mutineer_ , Jack reminded himself darkly: but a good man, at heart.

The storm was close now, rushing across the water at them like an ambulant waterfall. Rain whipped the waves into creamy foam, and the wind flung spindrift before it, so that the air was suddenly salt and wet.

Jack laughed. He strode across the deck to reclaim the helm from green-faced Grey, who was steadying the wheel and glancing fearfully over his shoulder. For'ard, there was the commotion of Shaftoe following orders, and explaining them (with, by the sound of it, unnecessary force) to the men. Even the most nauseous and simple-minded of 'em, though, would see the rain sweeping down on them; would know that gallons of fresh water were about to be deposited on the _Pearl_ 's deck (greatly in need of a wash) and on any of her crew (equally filthy) who stayed above. A few of the men, quicker than the rest, were already rigging a stay for the rainwater. Jack nodded, satisfied.

The sea was rising now, and the _Black Pearl_ bucked against Jack as he braced himself against the arch of the wheel. A right shame, how some men were unmanned by a little rough weather: look at 'em, puking and wailing and heading below! Jack felt stronger than he'd felt for days, all fizzing and bubbling with life, as the wind swept in like a demon and howled around the masts. He looked for Shaftoe, and saw him coming up -- down, now -- the steep rake of the deck, one hand for the ship and one for himself, heading for the quarterdeck.

"No need!" yelled Jack, shaking his head: but Shaftoe gave him a blank, wide-eyed look and hauled himself up the steps, staggering as a gust of wind broadsided the _Pearl_. The ship yawed alarmingly, and Shaftoe nigh fell upon Jack, clutching him hard.

Jack could not spare a hand to steady him -- the rudder was fighting him like a live thing -- but he turned his head and grinned at Shaftoe. Oh, the heat of the man amid the cold wet lashing ribbons of rain; and oh, better than anything, that reckless smile, that smile that said he was exhilarated, and did not count the risk.

"Go below!" he shouted anyway, close 'gainst Shaftoe's ear.

"Staying here!" Shaftoe bellowed back at him, winding a rope-end 'round his forearm. He was drenched already, water dripping from the dark mass of his hair, that bone-termined braid whipping against his cheek, and there was fierce delight in his face.

Jack rolled his eyes, but could not make himself call this mutiny. Shaftoe's presence, even once he was no longer crushing Jack against the wheel, was warm and solid, and it felt good, good, to have him there. There was no other work for him; Bootstrap, half-hoarse though the storm had hours to run, was marshalling those men fit for action, directing the water-gang and the topmen. Jack had no time to think of Bill, but then there was no need.

He gave himself over to riding the storm, gentling his ship through the brief respites and the savage whirl of wind and water and night. Somewhere behind the clouds, darkness fell, but there was no change in the heavy claustrophobic murk that encompassed them. The compass told Jack they were headed south of west, still, and he kept a sharp eye out to larboard for any sign of land; the coast hereabouts was marsh and mud for the most part, but he'd no wish to ground the _Pearl_ on some sticky sandbank to be broken by the sea.

All night they ran: all night Shaftoe stood there at his side. Jack glanced over once and saw him gulping rainwater greedily from his cupped palm. The sight made him thirsty, and at once, without any need for words, Shaftoe's rough-callused hand (clean, for a change) was against Jack's mouth, bidding him drink. Again. Again. Jack looked at Shaftoe, a long speaking look, and for a moment they were still, the storm still growling and crackling around them. _Mine_ , whispered Jack to the storm. _Mine, and I'm yours._ But Shaftoe could not have heard him, over the din of the wind.

Much later -- so much later that Jack, all dazed and aching, wondered if he'd sailed so long that all his crew were dead and gone, for he could see none of 'em -- he heard Jack Shaftoe speak, and the sound of a human voice, after the roar of the weather, was such a marvel to him that at first he could hardly comprehend Shaftoe's words.

"... morning," Shaftoe was saying, gesturing behind him. Jack turned to look. All along the eastern quarter of the world, a brightening line of light was showing 'twixt dark heaving seas and lowering cloud.

While Jack still peered and blinked at this evidence of dawn, of a new day, someone up above cried "Land!"

And there, straight ahead of the _Black Pearl_ as she raced before the last of the gale, the rising sun limned the horizon with jungle-green and the distant dazzling white of storm-driven breakers crashing against the shore.


	25. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty Five

  


There was no doubt in Pieter’s mind that the night just passed had been the worst of his entire benighted life so far; he wished he was equally confident that it would be the worst of the rest of his life to come, for he did not think he could survive a more hideous twelve hours. Wracked, tossed and hurled about that dreadful little dark cabin, as water dripped and spurted through the cracks of decking and hull, as sudden lightning reamed his eyeballs, and thunder—oh, it was loud enough to make his chest shake, his heart stop. He’d vomited until he could vomit no more, and the bucket had spilt, of course, leaving him dreading the return of Bill Turner and his fastidious scowl. ‘Twas no more than a day or two since that man had tried to murder him, after all, to set him ashore all alone and unsupported, to die slowly of gnawing hunger; or (he could not decide whether it would be better or worse) quickly and agonisingly of thirst.

But thoughts of thirst were not welcome in Pieter’s head, not after the day he’d been through. Unable to drink a damned thing! After that lunatick Sparrow had so capriciously changed his mind about his marooning, and perhaps in doing so he’d phant’sied himself to be quite the philanthropist (though that was not a word that sprang easily to mind, on board this vessel); little did he know that it was Pieter’s worst nightmare. Trapped on board, trapped, and all the water tainted!

And that was, finally, the thing that had made this grievous night the worst. That look in Jack Shaftoe’s eyes, over the water-barrel yesterday, when Pieter would not—could not!—drink. That sudden suspicious gleam in those terrifying blue eyes, like the eyes of a devil, truly. The storm had saved Pieter in more ways than one, of that he felt sure. It had brought him water, and it had brought him delay from Jack Shaftoe’s vengeance.

Pieter prayed, uncertainly, as the dawn came slow and sure, revealing a sodden stinking mess over the floor of the cabin. _Pater Noster, see your humble servant, hear his prayers; You know I wanted only to dispense Your justice, to see Your will be done. Do not now forsake me. Protect me from these monstrous men._

A man of science and rationality, Pieter was not entirely comfortable with his instinctive need to appeal to a higher power. On the other hand, the Lord’s existence had certainly never been _dis_ proven, and was therefore a reasonable hypothesis to continue to explore. And, rather surprisingly, he had no more than mouthed his final Amen when the answer to his prayer hit him, in a bolt of Divine Inspiration.

Doubt. That was all he needed; to plant a seed of doubt. Jack Sparrow might believe any vicious story that Jack Shaftoe told; Bill Turner, though, had no particular reason to. Bill Turner, in fact, had seemed at one stage to hold Shaftoe near as guilty as Pieter in Jack Sparrow’s sufferings. Bill Turner, though he’d proven himself no friend to Pieter, was the harsh voice of reason on this ship. If he was not certain of Pieter’s guilt; why, that was his best chance for survival.

Doubt.

*

“I do b’lieve I recognise that headland,” said Jack Shaftoe, all lit up from behind with the sun, now rising in a clear, rainwashed sky. “That ain’t far from where we left Enoch, is it?”

“No,” agreed Jack, fighting down a yawn. “Not far.” He felt limp and drained, they all did; what a night it had been, what a day before it, what a week in fact. “Should be at that rivermouth by nightfall.”

“You ain’t going to argue it any longer, then?” said Shaftoe casually. “You don’t mind that we’re in search of Enoch?”

Jack considered attempting to explain the subtle differentiation between minding that they were going in search of Enoch (which he’d gotten over rather quickly) and minding that his First Mate had sat there and blatantly disobeyed a direct order (which he was finding excessively difficult to overcome, regardless of Bill’s heroic efforts during the night); but it all seemed too hard. Instead he just said, “Nah,” and leant back against Jack Shaftoe’s warm, solid chest.

Shaftoe made a low breathy hum, as if that was what he’d been waiting for all night long as he’d stayed at Jack’s side hour after drenching hour, never moving, never arguing, just being… there. Shaftoe, too, was tired; Jack could feel it in the slackness of his bones, the way he slumped heavy against Jack, so that neither one of them could be said to be supporting the other on his own; buttressed, they were holding one another up. Shaftoe smelled of rainwater and damp hair. Lord, Jack wanted to take his hand, to lead him down below. To peel off his clinging clothes, to let Shaftoe do the same to him; to fall into the bed together, let one another’s warmth overtake them, to kiss all sleepy and gentle as they let exhaustion take them down. And then, in a few hours’ time, to wake all tangled and bare, and Jack’d show that man just how much he ‘preciated all the care that’d been lavished upon him the last few days, and how much better he’d become…

It was a fine phant’sy, alright, and Jack was close, oh very close, to indulging it, for hadn’t he done his duty for many long hours, and fought the helm through all those wild seas, and held their course true? He twisted his fingers into Jack Shaftoe’s, and Shaftoe didn’t resist, for all that they were in full view of those members of the company still standing; just turned to Jack, and yawned theatrically. Jack was leaning almost close enough to kiss, and just about to make some comment about the sheer exhaustion that Shaftoe must surely be feeling, when there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Jack?”

If Bill’s voice was like a rusty hinge on Jack’s spine, the sight of his First and that wretched Alchemist, all bedraggled and vomit-reeking and lurking obsequiously behind him, was more like a rusty nail through his eye. “What?” he managed, through gritted teeth.

“This fellow’s got a theft to report, and a theory ‘bout that sickness yesterday.”

“Oh, I just BET he fucking has!” snarled Shaftoe, and he took a step t’ward Spitaels, who flinched; the sudden loss of his Supporting Structure made Jack stagger a little.

“Let me guess, eh?” said Jack, with a sigh. “Belladonna, by any chance?”

Bill did a double take, and Spitaels shrieked excitedly, “Yes! Yes! Three vials, stolen from my effects! Those, and a flask of quicksilver, well, it was mostly empty; and a packet of dried valerian, though I may’ve simply mislaid that. But the vials, why, they’re locked away with all my most dangerous supplies—and look!”

He gestured at a beaten wooden box that Bill proffered for Jack’s examination; the remains of an iron hasp hung limply from the lid, the metal twisted and riven.

Spitaels’ high-pitched gabbling was attracting attention. Jack could feel the men gathering, all slow and subtle, not staring yet, pretending to be elsewise engaged; but Jack knew they were all ears, and figuring quickly that it was no dead rat that’d made them all so vilely ill. And Shaftoe didn’t help matters, grabbing Spitaels by the front of his coat and hauling him up on tiptoes, shouting, “Don’t you give me that, you evil little shit; you did it, I know you did it!”

“Am I such a fool, to p-poison the water of a ship on which I’m passenger?”

“Are any of us?” said Jack mildly; Shaftoe stiffened with a sudden inspiration, and cried, “Ah, but you thought you were ‘bout to be marooned, didn’t you! Eh?”

“So did that toothless fellow, and the other one, the pretty one,” said Spitaels, and (obviously sensing Shaftoe’s increased discomfort at the mention of that boy) he added, for good measure, “The little catamite.”

Jack had to admire the sheer animal cunning of the little rat. If anything was going to render Jack Shaftoe insensate, a comment of that type was probably it. Shaftoe was speechless with anger, and he gave a formless cry, and flung Pieter Spitaels from him as though he were poison himself; the alchemist did not make the slightest attempt to keep his footing, but let himself be thrown to the deck with a small, terrified squeal.

“Come now, Jack,” said Bill Turner, all sensible. “No need for that, is there? He could well be telling the truth.”

“Oh yes,” said Shaftoe, glaring daggers at the wretched youth cowering before him, “An’ I could be the Queen of Fuckin’ Sheba. He should go overboard, right bloody now.”

Turner folded his arms. “For the love of God, we’re pirates, not damned animals, Shaftoe.”

“Jack, shut up. Bill, use your head,” said Jack, summoning up the strength to intervene. “You know Spitaels is bad news. Think about it; he thought we was going to maroon him, so he took his revenge. An’ then I… changed me mind,” (he gave Bill a careful glance, letting him know that he was perfectly aware that he’d countermanded Bill’s own decision) “and kept him aboard. And he wouldn’t drink, and he didn’t get sick—”

(“Any physician would suspect the water!” cried Spitaels, flushing redly. “Shut up,” advised Jack Shaftoe, having sullenly accepted this advice himself, and he kicked the wretched creature in the ribs.)

“—an’ he knew Jack and I were on to him, so he came up with this story.”

“P’rhaps,” said Bill truculently, “or mayhap, Jack, it happened just as he said; and just because you and your mate here don’t like him much, you’re going to go off half-cocked and murder him.”

“Watch yourself, Mr Turner,” said Jack with a vicious glare.

But it just served to enrage Bill further. His voice rose, and he pointed an accusing finger. “You heard me, Jack, and I say it again: murder. Just as you would’ve done poor Stoney and young Martingale, the other night. Short drop, weren’t it, that you advised then?”

Just as he’d been aware of their gathering round, Jack felt the still silence that’d descended suddenly upon his men; and then they abandoned all pretence, and came clustering about the quarterdeck.

Jack’s heart felt like a stone. How could Bill’ve done that, said that? How? It felt like a death; the sudden and utter loss of his right hand, his Bill Turner. He could not look at the man, though he could hear Jack Shaftoe demanding, “Jesus Christ, Bill, what the hell was that for?”

Jamie Martingale, blanched by sickness and storm and worst of all this news, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “What’s he mean, Jack?”

“Jamie, it was nothing; I was sick, terrible sick, and I din’t know what I was saying. We’d never have done it, lad.”

But Martingale was looking at him as if he _had_.

“He was near dead!” said Shaftoe defensively. “He’d no idea what he was saying, mate; and all because this filthy heap of rat-turds poisoned him!”

“I was trying to _cure him_!” shrieked Spitaels, staggering to his feet to defend the tatters of his Professional Reputation. “You ignorant cretin, d’you think the brain-ravages of the Great Pox can be cured by—by—by chicken broth and kissing it better?”

Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake. There came a leaden silence, and then a clamour of voices; Jack raised his eyes to heaven and prayed for an obliterating bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky, and really, really, really wished he’d gone with Shaftoe’s first suggestion, the one about dumping Spitaels overboard. It was a good plan. He should learn to trust that man.

“Jack, you bastard, why din’t you say?”

“How bad is it?”

“Ain’t you better now?”

“What’s _brain-ravages_ s’posed to mean?”

“Ain’t you in yer right mind, Jack?”

(Why had he suddenly become Jack, instead of Captain, eh?)

Jack took a deep breath and attempted to assume a calm and captainly gravitas. He held up his hands for quiet. “Gentlemen! Gents! No cause for alarums. Yes, I was a bit sick with it. But I’m all right; and we’re on our way to find Enoch Root, and sort it all out, so don’t let’s fret, eh?”

Gill pushed forward. “Don’t let’s fret? Bet Stone wouldn’t be sayin’ that, if he knew what you’d wanted to do to ‘im.”

“I didn’t want—”

Jack’s voice was drowned out in shouting, and he closed his eyes just for a minute, utterly tired, utterly drained by it all. Mistake, that: for there was someone yelling, “Jesus, Jack, look at you, you look like a man half dead!” He stood up straight, and scowled. But too late, too late.

“Bootstrap should be Captain, till you’re… better,” said someone, and it didn’t matter who, for a dozen voices chimed in support of it.

Jack fought down a wave of nausea. Oh, God, all his worst nightmares at once; Bill untrustworthy, and everyone knowing of his situation, and facing, Jesus, facing the loss of his girl, his _Pearl_. He kept his face stony calm.

“’Tis your right, always,” he said. “You can vote. You can choose. But you know I’m the best man for’t. Haven’t I lead you through some wild and wondrous times together? Ain’t we all rich men? I shan’t argue it. Bill’s a fine fellow.” (Ooh, that last one was hard, but Jack was damned if he’d be seen to have a sour bone in his body ‘bout this. Couldn’t win, ever, by spitting on your opponent.) “But I swear to you on this ship, I’m in my right mind, and well as I ever was.”

Muttering, and uncertainty.

“Are you all mad?” cried Martingale. “If anyone’s the right to be upset, ain’t it me? But Jack’s our Captain! There ain’t anyone like Jack; who else would take the risks that Jack takes, who else is clever as Jack, who else could get us out of any scrape?”

“Who else would get us _into_ as many fuckin’ scrapes?” argued Gill. “Oh, aye, Jamie, ‘tis great fun sailing with Mad Jack Sparrow, but what if he’s _really_ fuckin’ mad? We’ve always trusted him, that he knows what he’s doing, but if his brain’s half-rot, he don’t know it anymore.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ say—”

“Why, it’s the plainest truth, ain’t it!”

A dozen voices joined in then, and the noise spiralled, spiralled out of control. Jack stared at the chaos, utterly dismal. This, this was exactly what he’d been afraid of, all along.

He felt a hand on his back, warm and strong. Shaftoe; oh, thank Christ for Shaftoe. Not that he could help Jack now. His glorious warrior ways were no use here.

Bill shouldered his way past Shaftoe, to stand by Jack’s side, and roared over the din, “Quiet, you scurvy knaves! Silence!” When this proved entirely futile he drew his pistol, and fired straight up into the sky. (Far more efficacious.)

“Listen to me: I don’t want to be Captain. Jack Sparrow’s my Captain, and I’ve told him that often enough.” He looked at Jack then, sincerity clear on his tired, handsome face. “So Jack’s making some odd decisions; that don’t mean we should, should… should throw him over.”

“Bullshit, Bootstrap!” Fucking Gill again. Jack wasn’t feeling awfully fond of the fellow, at this point. But here was Staines, chiming in: “We vote, Bootstrap, ain’t that the way it works? You cain’t tell us who’s captain any more than Jack Sparrow can!”

Jack could feel it all slipping away, slipping out of his control; if only he weren’t so damned tired, so leached and raw, so barely himself. But he could not think of a way around it. Staines was right; it was their prerogative, to name some other man captain, if they did not trust him anymore.

“Vote!” shouted Gill, and another voice joined him, and another, and the rhythmic stamping started up till the black decks quivered and reverberated with it, rousing the sick, bringing the stragglers up on deck to be whispered and gesticulated at. Bill gave Jack a helpless, apologetic shrug, and the only thing Jack could do, the only thing, was plaster a mask of indifference on his face. That was it. He was going to lose his captaincy.

Hopeless, it was; hopeless, till there came another voice behind him, roaring over the stamping and shouting. “Oi!” bellowed Jack Shaftoe. “Oi, you mobb; here’s a suggestion for you!”


	26. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Six

  
  
Shaftoe was pushing between himself and Bill, putting a hand to each of their shoulders and separating them, standing there like the man on the cross, like Justice with her two weighted scales. The gesture caught the attention of the company; the cacophony died down, and Martingale called, "What, Mr Shaftoe? What's your thought?"

"Seems to me," said Shaftoe, in a calm, carrying voice, "that you fellows have the best of both worlds right here. On the one hand, you've got Jack Sparrow; and he's a man of rare wit and creativity, eh? Fearless and fierce, sharp as a tack, wild as all of you rolled up together?" He clapped Jack on the shoulder, shook him as if presenting him at a slave auction, though he did not look at him. "And yet, fair enough, he's a tad mad at the moment, and not the wellest he's ever been." (Jack bared his teeth at this assessment, but it was, on the whole, a fair one.) " _Here_ , on the other hand, you've got William Turner; who's fine and brave and fair, and not mad in the slightest. But (and don't take this the wrong way, Bill, mate) he can't be said to have all that Jack Sparrow has, in sheer balls and instinct, can he?" Several people shook their heads.

"So why choose?" said Shaftoe, with a look of innocent confusion. "This ain't a monarchy, is it? Can't you have both? Can't they _both_ be captain? All Jack Sparrow's spark and all Bill Turner's sense? Ain't that the best you could have, mates?"

Jack stared at Shaftoe in appalled bemusement, his only comfort being that Bill Turner was looking at him the same way. What the _hell_ \--?

But Martingale was crying, "Aye! Aye, both of 'em! Both together!" And Gill, even bloody Gill was nodding, and the roaring chorus of "Aye!"s built and built until there could be no doubt.

Bill Turner, recently mutinous First Mate, was Jack's co-captain.

Jack did not look at Bootstrap. He turned a jaundiced, bleary eye on his crew (if they could in fact be said to be _his_ , as opposed to bloody Bill's), and they looked back at him all bright-eyed and eager, just as though Jack Shaftoe's Damoclean solution was what they'd all been hoping for.

"Right, you wretched band!" called Jack. His throat ached, and there was a less corporeal hurt somewhere deep within him, deeper than any of the Pox-ravages'd reached. "As Mr Shaftoe here's so _usefully_ reminded us all, I ain't in my right mind."

"Jack, I --"

"Silence, Mr Shaftoe. Now, there's some who'd say I haven't been in my right mind since I left my mammy's breast and ran away to sea." He scanned the familiar faces, looking for any sign of treacherous agreement; but they knew better than that, and stared back at him blankly. "Well, we've come to find Enoch Root, who you'll all remember as a learned gentleman, and one who's set many of us to rights. So let's hope he likes a challenge, eh?"

_That_ was better: they were laughing and cheering -- cheering for _him_ , not for Bill or for Jack Shaftoe -- and even fucking Gill was grinning, apparently quite untroubled by the fact that he'd just forced Jack to give up half of his _Pearl_ to Bill Turner.

"That being said," Jack went on, "we'll drop anchor in the bay, there -- not too close in, mind, there's work to be done," he waved a hand at the sorry state of the rigging and the spars, "before we go gallivanting ashore. Mr Turner -- I do beg your pardon, _Captain_ Turner -- may I trouble you to organise the necessary?"

Oh, 'twas good to see Bill squirm and redden. One of the men chuckled, and Jack glared at him. "Mocking your captain, Mr Partridge? No? Oh _good_." He let his smile sharpen, knowing that the men -- most of 'em, let it be said, not actively opposed to his captaincy -- were watching avidly, eager to see how Bootstrap Bill took to his recent (and, if Jack had anything to do with it, temporary) promotion.

"Aye, Captain Sparrow," said Bill stiffly, shooting Jack a filthy look. "I'll see it done. Are we sending a party ashore today, or waiting 'til morning?"

"I'll leave that to you, Captain Turner," said Jack magnanimously. "I'm going below to get some rest: Mr Shaftoe, a word?"

The word had multiplied considerably by the time the two of them were private within the sleeping cabin. "What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing, eh?" demanded Jack furiously, rounding on Shaftoe as soon as he'd latched the door.

"I didn't bloody start it! It was Bill, setting you --"

"So you thought you'd make him captain, eh?" Jack snapped.

" _Co_ -captain," Shaftoe said, as though it made a difference. "S'pose you'd rather they'd put it to the vote? 'Cause I tell you, Jack," and now he was leaning forward, all sparking with that delicious Shaftoe aggression, "they weren't in a fit state to be reasonable, not when they thought you were like to string up anyone who crossed you."

"I wouldn't --" began Jack, outraged.

"I know!" Then, less hotly, "But this, this accord'll keep 'em quiet 'til you're well again: and Bill wouldn't dare ... He's a good man, Jack: he's loyal to you, an' true. Not like that little shit Gill: I'll scrag him, see if I don't. Fucking nerve!"

Jack found that he did not really care very much about Gill's continued good health. "He's all yours," he said. "Christ, Jack, I'm tired: I could sleep for a week."

"A few hours' shut-eye'll do you the world of good," opined Shaftoe, just as though he wasn't yawning too, dead on his feet. He paused, looking at Jack. "Do you want me to, to let you rest?" he enquired delicately.

Eager to get back to Bill Turner, no doubt, and plot more double-crossing and ... but no, he could not think that of Shaftoe, not now, not with the way Shaftoe was looking at him, all solemn and tentative. Oh, fierce enough up there, and quicker-witted than most: it wouldn't do to underestimate Jack Shaftoe's wits. But now 'twas just the two of them, and ...

"I want to fall asleep next to you," said Jack with as much vehemence as he could muster, thinking wistfully of how simple that'd seemed, earlier: sleeping beside Jack Shaftoe, warmed by his blood and his body and his heart, and waking, mmm, waking ...

"Bed, then," said Shaftoe, his ready smile warming Jack once more. Oh, Jack Shaftoe's smile! It spawned the most delicious thoughts in Jack's tangled brain: but even that smile was insufficient, now, to fend off the sheer exhaustion that suffused Jack's whole body. He stumbled, trying to get off his coat: and at once Shaftoe was there, hands all warm and clumsy, gentling Jack out of his rain-sodden clothes, and letting his own fall in a messy heap on the boards.

And there, finally: skin to skin, Shaftoe's arm heavy on his waist, the blanket pulled up over them both, a private world a thousand miles from the noise and bustle on the deck above their heads. Jack wanted to tell Shaftoe how it felt, what it meant, to have him there: but the words buried themselves in a gargantuan yawn, and he let himself drift down instead into black sleep.

* * *

Jack woke suddenly, completely, and lay for a moment savouring Jack Sparrow's embrace. How long had they slept? Not long enough for Sparrow, certainly: there were still dark shadows under the ridiculous feathery sweep of his eyelashes. But he slept still, calm and untroubled, and Jack was loath to recall him to the waking world, and all the troubles in it.

_Fucking_ Gill; he'd always seemed a steady sort, but you could never tell. And fucking Bootstrap, too, bringing up that hanging nonsense just when things were finally settling. And Pieter Spitaels. Jack's teeth ground at the thought of the odious creature. Setting himself up as an innocent victim of theft! And there was no need to go calling Jamie Martingale a little ...

But that was rather too close to the bone for Jack, whose blood was stirring -- sluggishly, to be sure, but 'twasn't to be denied -- at the sheer sinuous warmth of Jack Sparrow, one leg thrown over Jack's thigh, his empty prick all soft 'gainst Jack's own, his breath stirring Jack's hair against his neck and bringing to mind memories of that incendiary mouth on his skin, just there beneath his ear, licking and sucking and ... oh Lord, thought Jack, feeling a familiar heaviness in his own privities. Jack Sparrow's worn thin with sickness and tiredness and hard work, and there's more work to do, and Enoch to find, and --

"Time to get ... _up_ , is it?" murmured Sparrow next to his ear, his breath warm and tickly with laughter. Jack turned his head just enough to see the wicked curve of that delicious mouth; moved his hand from Sparrow's ribs to the sweet promise of his arse; wriggled closer to Jack Sparrow as he felt an answering pressure from Sparrow's yard, no longer exactly what you might call soft, next to his own cock.

"You ain't well," argued Jack, more from a desire to have Sparrow demonstrate the extent of his recovery than from any real desire to curtail the proceedings. "You need --"

"I'll show you what I need, Jack Shaftoe," Sparrow muttered, lips brushing 'gainst Jack's own, writhing and curving and stroking Jack with more energy than Jack'd seen him expend for days. "I need _this_ fine portion of your anatomy, and I need it, mmm, I need it somewhere round _here_. D'you suppose you could oblige me, Mr Shaftoe?"

"Mmmm," managed Jack, now achingly hard and wondering if he'd last long enough to sink more than halfway into the volcanic heat of Jack Sparrow's body. Oh, it'd been _weeks_ ; and Sparrow was clearly desperate for it too, all flushed and gasping as he straddled Jack, one foot on the floor to brace himself as he stretched to reach the salve. "Oh Christ Jack oh Christ _please_ ," Jack found himself begging, even as he dipped his fingers in the pot that Sparrow held for him, and ran them slickly down the cleft of Sparrow's arse, hissing 'tween his teeth at the feel of Sparrow's hand all greasy on his yard, hissing more at the tightness of Sparrow's arse 'round his fingers, grinding his teeth to keep at bay the deliquescent thought of that tightness surrounding his prick.

"Gently," warned Sparrow, "there's parts of me still tender"; and immediately gave this the lie by rising up over Jack and fairly slamming himself down, mouth opening in a soundless shout of ... of what? Pain, surprise, exhilaration? Jack rather thought the latter, for Sparrow was leaning back to take him even deeper, propping himself up so that Jack could thrust, and 'twas an invitation too alluring to resist: Jack set his hands to Sparrow's hips and held him still, and held himself motionless too for a long moment, 'til Sparrow's head went back and he spread his legs wider, trying to force himself down on Jack's eager prick.

"Gently?" queried Jack, with as much innocence as he could manage under the circumstances; and Sparrow leaned down (with marvellous effects vis-à-vis the stretch of his arse 'round Jack's cock) and bit Jack's lip, and said, "Best let me be the judge of it, an' -- _unnnnh_ ," as Jack got his hands under Sparrow's thighs, and lifted him enough to go deep and hard, and make Jack Sparrow groan, not with pain any more, but with heady delight.

* * *

Whatever you might say about Jack Shaftoe (and Bill had a great deal to say about him, though he was saving it for a suitable audience: Enoch Root, perhaps, hadn't Enoch known Shaftoe back in London?) there was no denying his ability to bring a smile to Jack Sparrow's face. Sparrow still looked like something the cat'd dragged in; there was a greyish pallor lurking beneath his sun-darked skin, and less of a spring to his stride than was usual. He was walking carefully, like a man who ached in every limb. _That_ , of course, might be mostly to do with whatever he and Shaftoe'd been up to, below: Bill did not care to picture this in any detail, but from the sounds that'd drifted up from the captain's cabin -- Sparrow and Shaftoe's cabin, now -- it'd been mightily enjoyable for them both.

Bill scowled, and thought of Kitty, and of that girl at the Ship in Port Royal. All very well for some, it was. All very fine.

"How's it looking, Captain Turner?" said Sparrow cheerfully.

Bill set his teeth. "Pretty much done here, Jack --"

"Captain Sparrow, if you please," said Sparrow, with that smile that made Bill itch to hit him.

"Rigging's all fixed and spliced, though we could do with finding ourselves some more cordage one of these days," said Bill. Shaftoe had gone off, probably to find Pieter Spitaels and strike terror into his rodent heart: Bill, despite his earlier defence of the man, was heartily in favour of this, having been faced with the task of cleaning up the results of Spitaels' unseamanly constitution. The quarterdeck was empty save for the two of them, himself and Sparrow. "Jack," he said urgently. "No, listen. I'm sorry -- I din't mean for this, for me to be co-captain or anything: I just reckon it was getting out of hand, all of it: an' I'm your man, Jack, you know it, I ain't sailing this ship without you at the helm ..."

He was babbling now, and he hated it: but Sparrow was just standing there, looking at him with that knowing tolerant look, and never saying a word.

"Jack? Look, I'll go if you want it: if you don't trust me no more, I'll go, I'll --"

"Mr Turner," said Jack Sparrow, and Bill was immeasurably pleased that he'd dropped this 'Captain Turner' nonsense. "You're First Mate of this ship, and you're a fine man for her: and who knows, you might even make a fine captain. Nice and safe, you'd be. But the fact remains, Bill," and now he was leaning close, all hard glowering black gaze, "the fact remains that you disobeyed an order, an order from your Captain: and I won't forget that, Bill, not for a long time."

"It was for your --" Bill burst out, stung with the injustice of it all.

"And you're the judge of me, are you, Bill?" enquired Sparrow, low and nasty.

"Jack Shaftoe --"

"I'll deal with Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow: then, more loudly, "Now, Captain Turner: are we fit to go ashore?"

Bill looked around. A couple of the men had gathered at the foot of the steps, drawn inexorably to any indication of captainly difference. Jack Shaftoe, sans Spitaels and unsmiling, was coming aft from the galley, with a chunk of blackened bread in his hand. There was a general air of anticipation.

"Afternoon's getting on," said Bill, glancing at the western sky. The sun was well past its zenith: there were three, maybe four hours of good light left, and Bill didn't fancy the men's chances, on foot in the jungle at night. "And we've no hope of finding Enoch Root in the dark, now have we?"

"Ah, but I've the remedy for that," offered Shaftoe, striding up onto the quarterdeck as though there were _three_ captains, not two, in this farcical command-committee. "Bread, Jack?"

"Is that what it is?" said Sparrow dubiously, taking the proffered cinder and nodding his thanks. "What's this Remedy of yours, then, Mr Shaftoe?" he enquired through a splintery mouthful of crust. "Do pray enlighten me, and Captain Turner here."

"Remember when we first met?" said Shaftoe. "When you plucked me from that little spit of sand, out t'wards Saint Lucia?"

"How could I forget that auspicious occasion?" murmured Sparrow warmly, turning such an ardent look upon Shaftoe that Bill felt obliged to examine the rigging above his head, never mind that he'd checked every knot and stay of it this morning. Shameless, the pair of 'em.

"It was dark," said Shaftoe. "Past sunset. And yet you noticed me, did you not?"

Bill opened his mouth to explain the optical advantages of a blazing bonfire on a beach, as compared with a smouldering torch in a thick, soggy jungle: but Sparrow crowed with laughter, and cried, "Aye, Mr Shaftoe. Rockets!"


	27. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Seven

  


Mr Jack Shaftoe had so very many moods and modes from the observation of which Jack Sparrow derived the greatest of pleasure, truly he did.

The obvious, of course; his wild ardency in the privacy of their own little two-man world, whether it be huddled sweating and groaning under Jack’s tatty blankets, or sprawled wanton and gasping on the floor, why, yes, that was certainly one of Jack’s favourites, and best known. And those times when Shaftoe was all mumbly-warm with dozy affection, butting his head up against Jack like a sleepy lion, getting himself all comfortable for a night’s rest, that was delightful too. Ooh, and what about when Shaftoe was in one of his laughing, mocking moods, when the whole world was nothing but a great entertainment for the two of them, and for any lucky other who happened to come along, and Shaftoe was all bright wide grins and sharp asides? And he couldn’t, couldn’t ignore those times when Jack Shaftoe had himself a battle to fight, and turned into that unstoppable flame-hearted dervish. (Jack suffered a delicious little frisson at that recall.)

But there was yet another side of Shaftoe that was dear to Jack’s heart, and here it was in front of him; Jack Shaftoe, pyromaniac, or so Jack’d first thought him when he came across him. _Firebug_ , he’d said to himself; and though it hadn’t proved strictly true, still, every now and then Jack certainly recalled why it was that he’d had such a suspicion. The capering glee, the fizzy determination with which Shaftoe’d applied himself, this evening, to the production of signal rockets, was infectious, and he’d had no end of willing helpers clustered about, planing wood, measuring powder, twisting fuses, offering their hoarded pennies and filing ‘em down. Shaftoe’d organised them all, given each man his task, and now, out the end of that line of labour, rockets were appearing.

They didn’t look like much; a long stick, a dangling fuse, a square wooden barrel held together with twine, and inside, papery twists of Jack Shaftoe’s alchemical fixings. But they’d work; in that, Jack had utter confidence.

As the sun set, the rocketeers redoubled their efforts; Jack had Stone and Martingale bring them up bowls of the (rather odd-smelling) gallimaufry they’d produced for supper, and jacks of rum, but Shaftoe was too fired up to eat much. As the stars came out, he came bounding over to Jack and Bill, and proclaimed his handiwork ready. Jack bestowed upon him his widest and most appreciative smile, and got one back in return.

“So, are you ready for… ignition, Mr Shaftoe?” he queried, winking and raising an eyebrow, and unable to stop a certain degree of smirking. Bill made an unimpressed noise, but Shaftoe took the double-entendre on the chin, and winked back, and declared that he was pleased to find himself in a state of more or less constant readiness, thank’ee captain, and _ignition_ waited only upon Jack’s word.

Jack took a deep breath, and tried to apply himself, and not become prematurely distracted.

“’Tain’t just my word on this particular matter, though; my confrere and I will have to agree,” he said sweetly. “What say you, Captain Turner? Shall we set off these here rockets, and see if we can alert the good Mr Root to our presence, should he still be in the vicinity?”

“How’s he supposed to know it’s us?” said Bill.

Jack thought it was a little late in the piece to be picking holes in the fundamental theory behind the idea, given that they’d just spent several hours putting these things together, but… patience. Bill was thorough. He just was, and nothing was going to change that. So instead of rolling his eyes like Shaftoe, he said evenly, “How many other fellows, ‘part from Jack Shaftoe here, have you seen shooting green fireworks through the balmy Caribbean night, eh?”

Bill grunted and shrugged. “Suppose we’re as likely to attract Enoch Root’s attention as anyone’s,” he said. “Though who knows who else might note it, and come looking.”

Shaftoe lacked Jack’s insight into Bill Turner’s Natural Humours, and hence his (albeit artificial) patience. “So what if they do? Who exactly are we supposed to be scared shitless of?” he demanded. “Because I’ve got to say, _Captain_ Turner, sitting here on this bloody great heavily armed galleon I do feel relatively unendangered.”

Bill glared at him, and Jack said, reprovingly, “Hush, Jack. Balancing risk-taking with rational consideration, ain’t that what you suggested with this co-captain lark? So don’t go giving Bill any crap about sensible questions now. Come, Bill, do we, I mean I, have your agreement?”

“Yes,” said Bill, just as Jack had known he would, once he was done with all his predictable persnicketing.

Minutes later Jack Shaftoe stood at the stern railing, the end of one rocket held firm in his fist. “Who’s going to set me off, then?” he said, with another wink at Jack, and the men laughed. Jack pulled out his tinderbox, and sauntered over; “You sure this is safe, Mr Shaftoe?” he said, as he struck the flint and blew upon the tinder.

“Hell, no,” said Shaftoe cheerfully. Jack grinned, and lit the fuse.

The noise was tremendous, and the crashing shower of sparks made Jack think for one horrid instant that the whole thing had blown up in Shaftoe’s hand; but no, it had all gone according to plan, and high above them a fine sparking trail marked the rocket’s path, before the upturned faces of the company and the dark lines of the _Pearl_ ’s rigging were lit up with a sudden burst of viridian lightning, and green sparks rained down from the night.

Jack could feel his mouth forming into a silent ‘O’ of delighted awe.

“That ought to do it,” said Jack Shaftoe, with the greatest of satisfaction.

Jack gave a happy sigh, and noted, “You’re a man of rare talents, Mr Shaftoe; ‘tis a pleasure to watch you work.”

“Happy to entertain you, mate.”

“Oh, you do entertain me, Jack; you do,” Jack avowed sincerely, and Shaftoe’s grin grew even broader.

“So,” he said, turning away from Jack and addressing his helpers, “Who wants to do the next one?”

There came a happy clamour, and Jack cocked his head to one side. “What, don’t you want to do any more firelighting?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Jack Shaftoe. He handed off the next rocket to Joe Henry (Jack had a brief pang of guilt, in which he remembered saying something along the lines of _Don’t you worry Mrs Henry, he won’t be doing anything more dangerous than a bit of swabbing, I promise you_ ) and then stepped away from the crowd, backing Jack up against the gunwale. He leaned close, putting a gunpowdery hand to Jack’s shoulder; the acrid, burnt smell of it did something wicked to Jack’s insides. “I’m more of a mind to do some fire _extinguishing_ , ‘fore we venture out into the wilds tomorrow,” Shaftoe muttered. “Care to join me below, Captain Sparrow?”

Jack found he cared for this suggestion a great deal.

*

“No, nonono,” said Jack Shaftoe, and he plucked Sparrow’s searching hand out of his breeches. “What, ain’t you satisfied yet, after this afternoon?”

“Never,” said Sparrow, managing to both leer and pout at the same instant. “Come on, Jack, what was all that about fire extinguishing, if it ain’t _that_ fire we’re talking about? ‘Cause I’m fairly certainly you’re at least a little… inflamed,” he added, with a knowing glance.

Jack shifted uncomfortably, to hide the signs of his body’s betrayal; he really did have a different agenda, but it was never easy to stick to a plan when Jack Sparrow had ideas of his own.

“Stop it,” he said. “I was referring to you, not me.”

“Oh, I confess it, I’m afire all right,” said Sparrow, pressing close enough to Jack to prove it. “But I don’t see the point of dousing _me_ and not your good self, mate.”

Jack chuffed with laughter. “Jack… Jack! Get off, and listen to me! What I’m trying to say is that, this afternoon, when we… well, I noted that, though you _are_ seeming to mend, those… marks, the pox sores, they ain’t gone yet—”

“Jesus, give me a day or two; and why’re you so damn fussy now, you din’t seem to mind when you were—”

“I don’t mind ‘em, dolt,” said Jack, exasperated. “But I was thinking they looked a mite raw, a trifle _fiery_ , if you will; I’ve still half a bottle of that oil of Enoch’s; and wouldn’t it help ‘em, help you, if I were to, well, rub it in a little?”

“Oh, _now_ you’re talking,” said Sparrow approvingly, and in seconds he had made it over to the cot, somehow shedding all his clothing on the way, and was sprawling naked on his belly. “Ready!” he advised, with a wriggle of his backside, and an enticing glance over his shoulder.

Jack grinned and shook his head. Getting better, that was for certain sure.

He rummaged in the sea-chest for Enoch’s bottle; lovely stuff, that oil, and he spent a few happy moments recalling its varied uses over the past month or so. Aye, it felt good. And it would feel good, too, to be anointing Sparrow’s skin with something that didn’t burn, or sicken him.

He straddled the backs of Sparrow’s thighs, one leg bent beneath him, the other on the floor, taking some of his weight as he pushed the pirate’s thick tangle of hair onto the pillow, and poured oil on his palms. “Here, love,” he said, and flushed to hear the word come out of his mouth, and hoped it sounded like no more than a random, meaningless endearment (surely that was all he’d meant it as, wasn’t it?). “This’ll feel fine.”

Indeed, it did feel fine; fine to slide his hands over Jack Sparrow’s skin, the bunched muscles of his shoulders and the hard knobs of his spine, and watch the man’s ribs heaving with deep relaxing breaths at Jack’s touch. Down over those ribs, and Jack rubbed his thumbs over the hillocks of vertebrae, let his fingertips wander careful over dull gold skin.

“Y’ c’n press hard,” mumbled Sparrow. “Like the girls in the East Indies, Jack. In Singapore. Oooh, those Chinese girls, they know just where to press, where to push. Tiny they are, but strong hands, ooh, strong—ah, not quite _that_ strong, darlin’—”

“Sorry,” said Jack, wincing and scowling a little at the ‘darling’. Jack Shaftoe was surely no pirate’s _darling_ , but it was his own bloody fault, with that accidental _love_ tumbling from his lips. He shifted down, rubbing oil into the delectable hollows that lurked just above each of Sparrow’s buttocks (he could not know that the self-same curves adorned his own back) and just a little further down… he wriggled backwards, and attempted to administer his treatment to Sparrow’s tensing arse without turning it into an excuse for letting oil trickle into that enticing cleft. He was trying to do the right thing here, really he was. It wasn’t his fault if it was leaving him hard as a fucking rock. Jesus, Jack Sparrow lying there all slicked up and glistening, humming with his eyes closed…

Jack bit hard at his lip, and said, a little hoarsely, “Turn over; there’s a few on your front, as I recall.” He lifted himself from Sparrow’s thighs, and Sparrow wriggled and turned beneath him. Lay there, resplendent and grinning, his hands tucked behind his head and his cock solid and heavy on his belly; dammit, a few dry rosy marks did nothing, nothing to detract from the power of the man’s beauty. Lovely he was, oh so lovely; something twisted, melted, ignited inside Jack, seeing him thus.

He did not dare meet Jack Sparrow’s (doubtless incendiary) gaze, but trickled cool oil directly from the bottle onto Sparrow’s chest; slid his greased palms over those poor rough red patches of skin, and they sucked up the moisture greedily. He spread his nine fingers wide, slipping them one by one over Sparrow’s nipples, watching the dark skin pucker and tighten. Down to the concave, stretched skin of his belly; down to the muscled line that ran from hip to groin, where other marks lurked. Sparrow was beginning to breath harder, deeper; letting his hips move, just a little, beneath Jack. There, on Sparrow’s cock, another mark; Jack addressed it, and Sparrow twitched and groaned. Oh, Christ, how could Jack _not_ turn this into what it obviously begged to be?

“Jack… ah, Jack, I—” he started, but Sparrow’s eyes flew open.

“Take your clothes off,” said Sparrow, all low and gravelly, “and let me, let me, do the same for you; your hands feel, God, so fine. So fine.”

“But it ain’t me that needs—”

“I don’t care; come on, Jack, please?”

Jack could not refuse it, though that hot slick yard felt so incredibly good beneath his hands, and neither could he deny that to be naked with Jack Sparrow sounded like a truly excellent plan. He lurched up, ripping at his shirt, scrambling out of his breeches; Sparrow squirmed across the cot, making room for him. He lay down on his back, and there was Sparrow, the long warm length of him all against Jack; Jack reached for him, yearning, but Sparrow grinned and wriggled away, slick as an eel.

“No, mate, on your belly, as you made me.”

Jack growled but complied, and soon could not regret it, as first cool viscous oil and then strong hot hands were upon his skin. Whatever Jack Sparrow had undergone at the hands of East Indian whores, he’d been paying attention and had learnt well. Jack grunted happily, groaned as Sparrow teased out knotted muscles, smoothed out tensed flesh, did something forceful to Jack’s spine that made a disturbing clicking sound and yet felt perfectly fabulous afterwards. And slowly, inexorably, his hands wandered down, down, down, just as Jack’s own hands had done; down, sliding over Jack’s hips, cupping his buttocks, kneading them. Thumbs sliding… between.

Jack made an inarticulate sound of protest, and Sparrow laughed at him, and next minute—

Oh, heaven; next minute Sparrow’s slick body was on top of Jack’s, hot and slippery-hard, his tongue was in Jack’s ear, and one hand was forcing its way underneath Jack to grip his (very appreciative) prick. And Jack Sparrow’s own member was pressed right there, throbbing and hard, in the warm oily cleft of Jack’s arse.

Which was not heaven at all, or shouldn’t be; and Jack was revisited by all those perfectly right and reasonable objections that he’d long harboured, about randy buccaneers and their unwelcome attentions vis-à-vis his nether parts.

“Oi!” he said, though not very convincingly as it turned out, and he wriggled in an irritated and yet futile sort of a way (which only served to make Sparrow hum admiringly); he was well pinned. And besides, he didn’t want to try too hard, for if he squirmed out from under, he wouldn’t have Jack Sparrow’s greasy hand sliding firmly up his cock, or Jack Sparrow’s lithe body on top of him, pressing him deliciously down, or Jack Sparrow’s mouth sucking on his earlobe that way. “Jack,” he tried again, “Don’t you fucking do it, I’m warning you.”

“No, no… mate, would I do’t if you din’t want it? Eh?”

“No,” admitted Jack, “but it’s still worth restating that I—ah, do that again, won’t you, ooh yes—that I _don’t_ want it.”

“Don’t you?” Sparrow’s hips were moving against him now, oh fuck, so slick and sinuous, but careful not to break the letter of Jack’s stated law; Jack felt dizzy with helplessness. What a strange thing it was, to be the one _beneath_ ; to be the one on the receiving end. “Don’t you, even a little?” whispered the pirate. “Don’t you wonder, oh, just a little Jack, what it would be like to feel me there inside you? Setting off those sparks, lighting that fire?”

“N-no,” said Jack, though the automatic lift of his hips said the opposite. ‘Twas only to give Jack Sparrow’s hand more room, aye, that was all, oh that was all…

Sparrow’s tongue circled his ear, and the man’s cock was sliding so hot, so hard, so slippery between Jack’s cheeks. “I shan’t do it,” he panted, and licked at Jack again. “Mmmm, oh, I shan’t Jack, but Jesus, your arse is so gorgeous; I can’t say that I don’t want to, to push into the tight heart of you, fuck, I want it, I do, I do. I want to fuck you, Jack, I long to, I burn to, but I won’t.”

Jack, pumping into Jack Sparrow’s knowing hand, could not reply; he pressed his forehead into the pillow, closed his eyes tight. Sparrow pushed Jack’s hair away from the nape of his neck and was kissing, licking him there at the top of his spine, making nervous tingles shoot down, all the way down, all the way to Jack’s clenching arsehole; and the slide of Sparrow’s cock, there, the weight of him, the tilt of his hips, his thumb on Jack’s cockhead, oh Christ, oh Christ…

“I won’t,” whispered, panted, Jack Sparrow, “till you ask me for it, beg me for it; and then, God damn, then I’ll fuck you till you see stars and angels, Jack Shaftoe; just as you do to me, just as I see ‘em when you’re driving and slamming into me, and, _nnh!_ ”

And there was a spurting bloom of wet heat at the base of Jack’s spine; and for the second time in his life, Jack Shaftoe arched and gasped and spent at the thought of another man’s cock pressing deep inside of him.


	28. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Eight

  


An extra chapter, because I was having a little prolific burst. Normal scheduling to be resumed after this!

*

“I’m coming with you.”

The day had dawned grey, dull and drizzly; the little huddle of huts at the rivermouth were all but obscured in the fine curtain of rain. That, and the unwelcome prospect of tramping off into the sodden jungle (which was far too full of flora and fauna, and far too empty of chances to ascertain whether he really _could_ make Jack Shaftoe Beg For It), were sufficient in themselves to dampen Jack’s spirits; he really did not require additional argumentativeness from William Turner.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Turner; we need someone to look after the ship, and you’re the best man for the job.”

“As it happens, you can call me _Captain_ Turner, for now,” said Bill (what on earth had gotten into him, Jack asked himself); “And I’m sick and tired, Captain Sparrow, of always being left aboard, waiting and twiddling my thumbs, while you swan off to Lord knows where. There’s bugger all to do; no other ship for miles; and you, mate, aren’t well. You need me.”

“No he don’t; he’s got me,” said Shaftoe, sidling close enough for Jack to feel the heat emanating from his body; an affirmation which, while indubitably pleasurable in itself (redolent as it was of Jack’s… _ownership_ of Shaftoe, and begging the inference that that state was a persistent one) really didn’t help matters much. Jack kicked him, lightly, in the shin; Bootstrap bristled.

“You stay,” he suggested. “You stay, Jack, an’ I’ll bring back whatever Enoch suggests in the way of a curative.”

“Don’t be bloody ridiculous,” snapped Jack. “If we’re going to do this, we should do it properly; of course I have to fuckin’ go.”

“Then Jack Shaftoe can stay, if you trust him so,” said Bill, mostly (Jack judged) because he knew this was the last thing Jack would want to do. As a result, he cocked his head and stared at the corner of the ceiling, as if he were seriously considering it.

“Could do,” he said eventually, and the flash from Shaftoe’s eyes nearly knocked him over. He couldn’t suppress a small grin. “’Cept Mr Shaftoe’s in need of the cure, same as I am. So it’s got to be you, Billy boy.”

Bill crossed his arms, and planted his feet still wider, lifting his chin. Jack observed this and suspected that he was witnessing something rather unusual; Bill Turner deciding that he would not, under any circumstances, give in to Jack Sparrow.

“Nope,” said Bill.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snapped Jack. “Don’t be such a bloody baby. _I want to come too, I want to come too_ ,” he mocked, in a sneery, childish singsong. Bill’s jaw clenched, and they glared at one another.

Jack Shaftoe, mercifully, intervened. Unfortunately, he sided with Bill. “Oh, come on, Jack,” he said, putting a hand to Jack’s shoulder (a hand which smelled, still, of rosy oils and Jack’s own skin, and brought a warm roil of memory with it). “Nothing’s going to happen here; West or Stone could handle it fine. Who knows what manner of savages there are out in that jungle? Should have our best men out there, shouldn’t we?”

Jack considered arguing the point, but there were quite a few down in the galley now, listening with half an ear to their co-captains’ discussion; and since he suspected he might eventually lose this debate, he determined that the best course was acceptance. “If you must, I suppose you can come,” he said grudgingly.

“Fine,” said Bill, ignoring the tone. “And we’ll take Martingale, and Picken, he’s a good swordarm.”

Jack thought he felt Shaftoe stiffen beside him at Jamie Martingale’s name, and suppressed a giggle. It was funny, no two ways about it, the way that boy worshipped Jack Shaftoe, and the way Jack Shaftoe fought t’ignore it. “Aye,” he agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “And Gill. And Spitaels.”

“What?” cried Turner and Shaftoe in unison.

“You heard me,” said Jack brusquely. “Gill cain’t be trusted not to wind the boys up, and I’m not about to let that poisonous little alchemist out of my sight. And ‘sides, I think it might be a good thing for him to meet Enoch the Red; tell Enoch what he gave me, in that cure of his. Enoch might need to know.”

“Ah, Jesus,” said Bill in disgust, but he did not argue further. “Fuck knows where he’s hiding, anyway; I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Shaftoe smiled, but it was a cold thing. “I suggested that he might want to keep out of the way,” he said mildly. “After the belladonna incident.”

“What did you do to him? We agreed, we can’t prove—”

“Keep your knickers on, Bill, I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing, though Christ knows he deserves it. I know what the little weasel did, his story’s a load of crap, you’d have to be a halfwit not to see through it. But I was _reasonable_ ; we just had a… discussion, is all.”

“The sort that leaves bruises?”

“What the fuck do you care? And anyway,” said Shaftoe evilly, “I know how to not leave bruises.”

Jack left them to their argument, and beckoned over Joe Henry. “Lad, go and find me that wretched Alchemist, will you? And tell him to ready himself for a journey.”

Henry nodded and scampered off; Jack rubbed his eyes, and turned back to his quarrelsome companions. A forest journey, destination unknown, with Pieter Spitaels for company, and Turner and Shaftoe bickering the whole way. He heaved a sigh. This was going to be fun.

*

That tiny settlement’d seemed deserted when they stood on the deck of the ship, save for a narrow twist of smoke, barely visible through the rain. But by the time the cutter pulled in to the muddy riverbank (Turner navigating the shoals, four men on oars, and two exempted, Sparrow by virtue of his recent Medical Misadventures and Spitaels by virtue of complete incompetence) there were a good dozen men sheltering silently on the rickety verandahs. Most were natives, clad only in scraps of something that could’ve been linen but looked more like tree bark, and some had ochre markings on their cheeks and noses; one had a long spike of bone sewn through his lower lip.

But the two who approached the river bank were European, tall and wide-shouldered, perhaps blond under all the dirt. These two carried swords at their hips, and pistols at their waist; they were the first to approach the boat.

They stood at the edge of the firm ground, before the point at which it degenerated into the thick squalid muck, redolent of dead fish and worse, that the _Pearl_ ’s men were attempting to drag the cutter through. Jack’s feet sank to his ankles with every step, and their slow progress was accompanied by the jellied sounds of sucking mud.

Jack Sparrow, hat tilted rakishly against the drizzle, stamped on ahead as if he were perfectly delighted to be arriving in this salubrious neighbourhood. “Good day, gentlemen!” he carolled. “Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_ , at your service; delighted to make your acquaintance, and I wonder if we might trouble you for some local information?”

The two men stared at him as if he were quite insane. Jack suspected that they did not have many visitors, that few of those they did have intended anything save deleterious effects, and even fewer (viz., none) looked like Jack Sparrow.

Finally, the younger of the two said, in a Dutch accent (Jack could see now that the dirty, ragged clothes they wore had once been cut in the Dutch style), “You… your ship… it was here before.”

Jack Sparrow smiled broadly. “How very observant you are, my dear fellow! We were indeed, briefly, in the vicinity.”

“You left your men here. Enoch the Red. John Burton.”

“You are utterly perspicacious. Those gentlemen are in fact the very reason for our return; can you p’rhaps enlighten me as to where they might be?”

Jack, adept at reading men’s moods, felt the change as though the rain had cooled, quite suddenly, against his skin; he let go of the side of the cutter, and the others stumbled, and let it settle into the mud.

“You should come inside,” said the older man, unsmiling. “Get out of the rain.”

A small silence, and Jack’s hand went automatically to his knife handle, fondling it comfortingly. On the other side of the cutter, he could see Jamie Martingale doing the same, touching his pistol.

But Sparrow seemed to feel no sense of threat. He inclined his head as if this were the greatest of courtesies, rather than a clear side-step of his question. “Gentlemen, it would be our pleasure,” he said.

Turner made a sign to Martingale and Picken, that they were to stay with the boat; the rest of the party followed the Dutchmen up through the drifting rain.

Inside the largest of the wooden hovels, the air was thick with smoke, and the scent of woodmould and unwashed bodies. Two benches flanked a rough-sawn table, covered with detritus; in the corners, two holed blankets swung, roped like hammocks. Two of the Indians followed them in, and sat silent and crosslegged by the fireplace. The others, Jack could hear standing close by the door, muttering in their outlandish tongue.

“I am Johannes Koeppel,” said the older man bluntly, with no attempt at Social Niceties, “and this is my son, Jan.”

Sparrow inclined his head, and introduced his party, though Koeppel didn’t appear to be the slightest bit interested in who they were, though he motioned for them to sit. “And, as I mentioned, we seek our friends, Root and Burton; I take it they’re not here no more, but perhaps you might point us in their direction, eh?”

“Do you want a drink?” said Jan abruptly.

“No, thank you kindly,” said Bootstrap, with a flickering glance around the rest of the party that warned them they’d better take the same approach.

As a direct result of which, “Yes, please,” said Jack instinctively, and was heartened to find himself talking in unison with Sparrow. Bill glared, and Jack shrugged, as if to say, _only being polite, mate_. Jan produced two battered pewter mugs, and a bucket into which he dipped them. “You’ll have to share,” he said; “we haven’t any more vessels.”

They had little enough of anything, by the look of it. Jack couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer, and while Jack Sparrow was risking a sip of Jan’s offering, and going a strange puce colour, he asked, “So what are you fellows doing in these parts? Long way from home, ain’t you?”

There was a little silence, and Jan drank, slowly, as if he did not want to be the one to answer. Eventually his father said, “We are… traders. We are waiting for the return of our ship.”

“Been waiting long?” said Jack conversationally.

Jan made a snorting sound, refilled his glass, and stamped outside.

“A while,” said Johannes mildly.

“Oh well,” said Sparrow. “Least you’ve had time to make some friends, eh?” He raised his cup to the Indians in the corner, and grinned; they started as his gold teeth caught the firelight.

“Talking of which,” he went on, “On the subject of _our_ friends… I can’t help but notice that you seem to be a trifle reluctant to inform me of their whereabouts, and it’s worrying me a little, I must confess. Come on, Meinheer; out with it, where are they?”

“Why did you send up the green fire, last night?” said the old man, as if Sparrow’d never asked his question.

“To attract the attention of _our friends_ ,” said Jack, leaning meaningfully forward across the table. Sparrow put a cautioning hand to Jack’s thigh, out of sight; hot fingers squeezed him, gently. There was doubtless supposed to be some message in that, though Jack couldn’t for the moment imagine what it might be, beyond the surge of stupidly delicious heat that any touch of Jack Sparrow’s brought with it.

“You may have attracted the attention of… others,” said Koeppel, and his voice shook a little. The words echoed Bill’s warning, and Jack could almost feel the _I told you so_ in the air.

“Who?” asked Sparrow, softly. “Who, Meinheer?”

“The people… who have your friends,” said Koeppel, and his eyes were watery with fear when he looked up.

“Who? What d’you mean, ‘have them’? Explain yourself,” Sparrow said, still calm and even, but his fingers dug deep into the meat of Jack’s thigh.

“Your Mr Root… was a foolish man.”

Everyone, save Spitaels, let out an inadvertent snort of breath at that one, and Koeppel frowned. “He set out in search of the Chibcha,” he snapped, as if this were the equivalent of seeking out Beelzebub in his lair.

“Yeeessss,” said Sparrow, looking at him askance. “He’s met ‘em before, you know. Traded with ‘em. Rather fond of ‘em, I gather.”

Koeppels shook his head. “I told him, whatever men he had met before, were not like these. Perhaps the Indians in Caracas have become more… civilised.”

“Why?” Jack asked, and a cold trickle of rainwater chose that moment to work its way down the back of his neck, making all the hairs stand on end. “What’s wrong with these Chibcha? This lot seem pretty friendly, don’t they?” He waved his hands at the two silent forms down by the hearth.

Koeppel turned his shivery gaze on Jack and shook his head, the loose flesh of his jowls wobbling. “These are not Chibcha. These men… keep us safe from the Chibcha.”

“Safe from what?” demanded Bootstrap. “What do the Chibcha do?”

“Do you imagine, sir,” came a cracking voice from the doorway, and they all turned to see Jan Koeppel, a dark silhouette, head ducked beneath the lintel; “Do you imagine that our Company would leave two men here, on this savage coast, alone on a trading mission? Do you imagine that these ten homes were built for just my father and myself?”

“Then where are the others?” said Jack, impatiently. “What happened to them?”

There was a moment’s quiet, save for a sparking crack from the fireplace, and the low hiss of rain blanketing the sounds of the forest.

“The Chibcha happened to them,” said Koeppel softly. “And your friends—your foolish friends—walked into the jungle, and into their bloodied arms.”


	29. A Second Opinion, Chapter Twenty-Nine

  
  
It had to be mid-morning, by now, but the drizzle hadn't let up, no, not for one bloody minute; the ground underfoot was a stinky sucking mess of dead leaves, and the jungle was whispery with the percussion of light rain on shiny, wax-slick leaves. The noise set Bill Turner's spine a-tingle -- who could tell what perils lurked in this nasty place, so close and full after the wide free ocean? -- but he kept a tight lid on his natural caution, and made sure that he did not fall too far behind their point-man.

"Only the Indians, damn them, can find a path through the forest," Johannes Koeppel had said. "This man's name is Robin -- oh, he has some other, but I do not know it -- and he will be your guide." And then the Dutchman had turned to Robin (a tall, lean, sneering sort, with a scrap of cloth 'round his loins and a plug of bone through his ear) and jabbered at him in some foreign tongue. Bill would've liked to have known what they'd said to one another, so secret: but Jack Sparrow seemed inclined to take them at their word, and Bill would not hang back, not now.

This co-captaincy was a messy business. Bad enough that Bill'd been elevated from his comfortable position as First Mate -- a promotion that had not been without its share of jests and witticisms from the other officers of the _Black Pearl_ \-- without having to tolerate Jack Sparrow's increasingly sly asides. And now, it seemed, there was a _third_ party in this lunatick command: Jack Shaftoe, who might be Sparrow's dearest friend, these days, but who Bill couldn't quite bring himself to trust.

_Jack_ trusted Shaftoe, though, and Bill had a suspicion he'd have to be content with that. And there was no denying Shaftoe's affection for, and loyalty t'wards, Jack Sparrow: to be fair, Bill had warmed greatly to him when he'd supported Bill's suggestion that they seek out Enoch Root and have him dose Jack Sparrow back to health, post Spitaels' Alchemical Treatment. But still.

Spitaels'd played Jack Shaftoe's antagonism for all it was worth. "Let me stay here," he'd begged Johannes Koeppel, all shameless. "Let me wait for you here; there's no use in every man of us struggling through the pathless jungle, and besides, Mr Turner," turning to Bill as the most even-handed of the shore party; faint praise indeed, "I'd slow you down. Nay, let me wait here, with my countrymen -- why, perhaps they have _ailments_ I can treat -- and I assure you I'll attend on your return."

"Good riddance," Shaftoe'd said, loud enough that Spitaels had flinched, and turned a speaking look upon Johannes Koeppel. The Dutchman had not seemed especially enthusiastic to have such a guest thrust upon him, but Spitaels had said something quick (and no doubt hateful) in that nasty wet voice of his, and Koeppel had unbent enough to nod.

"Mr Picken'll stay with you," Jack Sparrow had offered helpfully; then, as Spitaels began to protest, "No, no, I insist: in case of any trouble, you know? You'll be safe with Mr Picken by your side."

Shaftoe had been grinning: Picken rather less enthusiastic about the idea. But Bill could see the point of it, all right: without Picken (and his musket, and his gristly big hands) to keep an eye on him, there was no guarantee that Mr Spitaels would stick around for long enough to meet Enoch Root. And besides, they might need a safe, defended place to run.

For now, there were only the five of them -- Bill, Jacks Shaftoe and Sparrow, young Jamie Martingale and Andrew Gill -- out here in the trackless jungle, with two Warao as their guides: Robin, and another fellow whom Koeppel Senior'd introduced as Will. Jan Koeppel, the younger of the Dutchmen, had shown them a map, and pointed to a cluster of pointed roofs that (he claimed) marked the village where Enoch Root and John Burton were, at last report, being held captive.

"A day's walking, no more," he'd said: but he would not give Jack Sparrow the map. "No worth to you, Captain. There are no tracks in the forest, no marks that you might follow. Will and Robin know the way: they will take you there."

"And then?" Bill Turner had enquired. "How're we s'posed to extract Burton and Root from this village, eh?"

"Oh," had said Johannes Koeppel, without interest, "these Indians are careless, when it comes to their captives. You must steal them away when night comes."

All in all, reflected Bill irritably, it sounded like a fool's game, a lost cause, a forlorn hope; and he scowled at Robin's bare, bronzed back, all gleaming with moisture, and turned his collar against the drizzle.

"Bill!" called Sparrow, from somewhere behind him, and he turned.

"No, not you, Mr Gill," Sparrow was saying. "Bootstrap, mate: I reckon we could do with a rest, eh?"

Bill slowed to let his captain, his _co-_ captain, draw level with him. Sparrow's face, 'neath the brim of his new hat, was drawn with effort, and his breath rasped.

"Told you you shouldn't've come," said Bill, without preamble. "Aye, let's stop and have a drink. We'll all be better for it; and heaven knows we won't get any more damp."

"Stopping!" cried Jack Shaftoe to Robin. _He_ didn't seem under the weather: full of vigour was Mr Shaftoe. He turned and waved at Gill, and Indian Will, and Jamie Martingale bringing up the rear, then dropped down to hunker next to Bill in the paltry shelter of a half-fallen tree.

"Reckon young Martingale's found himself a new hobby," he muttered, grinning and elbowing Sparrow in the ribs.

Sparrow mustered a smile, though Bill could see the effort that it cost him. "Aye?" he said, following Shaftoe's gaze.

Bill could not help but snort, for Martingale's interest was evident in every line (well, perhaps not _every_ line; Bill did not care to look too close) of his body as he followed Will into their dubious shelter. Fine-looking man, Bill supposed, if you liked that sort of thing. "Prettier'n you," he said, clapping Shaftoe's knee and passing him the water-bottle.

"I'm hurt," Shaftoe assured him cheerfully. He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of water and gave the bottle to Jack Sparrow, who took it with a nod and a smile. Better already, as far as Bill could see, but this was no journey for a man who'd been so sick so very lately.

Shaftoe turned to Robin, who had led them this far. "How much longer?" he said loudly: then, when that elicited no reply, "How long? How far?"

Robin stared at him impassively. Will gabbled something, and Robin snapped back at him, one word. Bill did not like the sound of this.

"He says, not far now," said Will. Robin scowled at him. There was, dear Christ, a golden hoop through his left nipple. Jack Sparrow was eyeing it with fascination. Bill sighed.

"If it's close," he said, "then let's come to it as soon as we may: for the sooner it's done with and we're back on board with our friends, the happier I'll be."

* * *

If this was America, thought Jack Shaftoe irritably, the Spaniards were welcome to it. He had not visited the New World before (having spent the greater part of his life in more _civilised_ parts of the globe, and been laid low by the aftermath of the farewell party when Enoch and Burton had left the _Black Pearl_ ) and his first impression of the territory was not in the least favourable. The ceaseless rustle, creak and patter of the forest, the coded looks that Will and Robin kept shooting at one another, the sheer damp discomfort of slogging, on foot, through this rainy mulch: all made him irritable, and his hand -- when he could spare it from the work of pushing branches, ferns and vines aside -- rested on the hilt of his sword.

Well enough for Jack Sparrow, stumbling ahead of him along this laughable pretence for a path: he'd a hat to keep the worst of the rain -- the very _air_ \-- out of his face. And perhaps Jack's eyes on his arse were lending him some additional warmth, too. Well enough for Bill Turner, up ahead with that Robin fellow, no doubt insulated by a glorious pervasive glow of _I told you so_. Even Jamie Martingale, somewhere behind Jack, was keeping himself amused by making eyes at the undeniably handsome Will. If that meant Martingale'd stop casting those promissory looks at _Jack Shaftoe_ , why, he was all in favour of it: for 'twas Sparrow he wanted, and none other, never mind that Jamie Martingale was easy on the eye.

He needed some cheer -- they all did -- to counterbalance the nervy tedium of this gloomy promenade, each man of 'em walking as quietly as might be, eyes darting from shadow to shadow in search of those treacherous Chibcha that Koeppel had been at pains to warn them of. Not to mention wild beasts, landslides, and other natural hazards. Let the Spanish have it: and let the Chibcha huddle here in the rain, though preferably (Jack reminded himself) without the reluctant company of Enoch Root and John Burton.

Full of bloody insects too: Jack slapped at some fanged monster that'd decided to snack on his blood, and swore as it buzzed away.

"What's amiss?" enquired Jack Sparrow, just behind him.

"Bugs," said Jack feelingly. "Fuckin' bugs, everywhere."

"Really?" queried Sparrow. "Funny, that: I ain't had a single bite. Maybe I'm _unappetising_ to them."

"Oh, you're appetising enough, Captain Sparrow," murmured Jack, recognising a cue when he heard one. "And I'll be only too happy to demonstrate that fact, soon as we're back on the _Pearl_ an' out --"

"Captain?" This was Martingale, black hair all beaded and flattened with mist, nodding respectfully (though without his usual hopeful smile) at Jack.

"Aye, Mr Martingale?"

"Will thinks we took a wrong turn, back at the fork of the path, an' --"

"What path?" said Jack.

"Nah, he showed me," said Martingale blithely. "Said it ain't always easy, for a Christian to see."

"Too right it ain't," muttered Jack.

"So we've gone astray, have we?" said Sparrow equably. "Has he mentioned this to his mate, up ahead?"

"No, captain: he wants to go back and make sure of it, and I said I'd go with him."

"How selfless of you, Mr Martingale," said Sparrow: and Martingale flushed, swiftly and guiltily, and shot a look at Jack.

Jack shrugged, as if to say _'tis all one to me_ : clearly Jamie Martingale was up to no good, no good at all, and yet if they _had_ taken a wrong turning, 'twas better to find it out now.

"I've my musket, captain," Martingale was saying. "An' that pistol. I'll fire off a shot if there's danger."

"Aye, Mr Martingale: you do that," said Sparrow. "And mind you're quick about it. Finding the right path, that is."

"Good luck!" called Jack after Martingale, cheerily, as he followed the tall figure of Will back through the dense green. "Harlot," he murmured to Sparrow, who put a hand, theatrickally, to his own breast, and raised his eyebrows in horror.

"Nah, not you; though if I may say so, Captain Sparrow, you've --"

A scream from up ahead: the two of them began to run, and very shortly came upon Gill, who was clutching at his arm and panting.

"Shot, I'm shot, I felt it go --"

"Don't be such a fuckin' coward," said Jack. "The horseflies round here are bloody awful, but it's only a _sting_ : you'll be fine, just yank it out and --"

There was a horrid buzzing noise, like a whole nest of enraged hornets. Jack was taking no chances. He leapt at Jack Sparrow and bore him down into the mud. Somewhere, Bill was shouting "Down!" (which Jack, thank you, had already taken care of), and Gill was still making a fuss, and there was more shouting, now, away in the distance. Martingale and Will? Enoch? More miserable Dutch wankers?

Jack lay still, letting the dank mud soak its way through his jacket, his weskit and his shirt. He could hear Sparrow beside him, breathing heavily, could feel the warm pressure of his leg against Jack's own; wanted to turn his head and look; but prior experience of battlegrounds (albeit _European_ ones) indicated that this might not be the most sensible course of action.

"Stay still," whispered Jack. "Might be watched." There was something caught in his sleeve, and he stared at it stupidly, trying to focus. Another bloody insect, all striped and barbed and feathered --

Fletched, though with feathers brighter than any Jack'd ever used on an arrow. It _was_ an arrow, or rather a dart, not the length of his lost finger but viciously barbed: and somebody had shot it at him.

A sound of running feet, muffled by the swampy ground but still, Jack was sure, only one man. He slid his hand slowlyslowly down to his belt, fumbling for his knife: but then Bill's voice, low, said, "Ambush, Jack. Where'd Will and Martingale get to?"

"Said we took a wrong turn," said Jack. He raised his head cautiously. Bill was crouched next to him, long knife bright and ready in his hand; on his other side, Jack Sparrow (all muddied but otherwise unscathed) was lying still, chin propped on his hand as carefree as though he were reclining on his cot. Oh, how Jack wished ... But this was not the time, nor the place.

"Either it's a trap, and Martingale's already dead," said Sparrow, "or he's hiding out in the jungle, an' he knows where we are. Where's what's-his-name? ... Robin?"

"Up ahead," said Bill, twisting round to frown over his shoulder. "I -- hey!" he called, scrambling to his feet.

Jack pushed himself to his knees, assessing the situation. Gill was still sitting against a tree, vines hanging down around him, wailing: Robin was coming quickly back through the trees, gesturing urgently.

"Hey!" called Bill again: and Robin turned an inscrutable look on him, and brought his hand up to his mouth -- like some floozy blowing a kiss, thought Jack inconsequentially -- and, without warning, without fuss, Bill fell silently to the matted reeds of the hidden path.


	30. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty

  


Bill.

_Bill._

In one black moment, all that foolish irritation that Jack had fomented for his First Mate, nay, his Co-Captain— _nay_ , his dearest and oldest friend—dissipated into forest mist. His heart stopped for a long second as Bill Turner fell, that great strong body slumping deadweight to the ground. Oh, not Bill, not Bill—

And yet, worse was possible; Jack himself was all low in the mud, and presented no silhouette to the Indian along the path, but Jack Shaftoe was on his knees at Jack’s side, and had made a sudden grunting sound as Bill fell. Oh, Christ, did that mean that Shaftoe, too, had some feathery dart biting its way through his skin, dripping who-knew-what nasty poison into his blood?

“Jack!” he said, louder than he should, twisting round in the mud to see Shaftoe, fearing that he’d be crouched there with a look of dismay on his face, with a hand to his shoulder or neck or chest.

But instead the expression Shaftoe wore was a vicious, sharp-toothed rictus, and he knelt up high, one arm stretched out before him, fingers straight and quivering, for all the world as though he’d just thrown—

Jack swivelled round again, and the Warao, Robin, was standing blank-eyed and foolish between the trees, the handle of Jack Shaftoe’s knife shuddering in his throat. Even as Jack registered the sight Robin twitched, and fell forward, driving the weapon’s blade right through and out.

“That was quick,” said Jack, a trifle faintly, and rather overcome by surprise and (he had to admit it) a shameful little frisson of delight. But now was not the time to bask in the murderous glory of Jack Shaftoe. He lurched up onto hands and knees, his clothes heavy with foetid mud, and crawled over to Bill Turner.

“Stay low!” called Shaftoe. “There might be others!”

“What d’you mean, might, we know there’s at least one more,” said Jack. _Oh, Jamie Martingale, you silly lad!_ But first, first—

Jack rolled Bootstrap over, and there was the dart, right in the fat vein of his neck, a thickening dribble of blood pooling about it; Jack snatched it out, feeling the barbs rip at Bill’s flesh, flung it from him, and did a quick check of the rest of Bill’s body (no further evidence) before shaking him roughly, slapping his dirty cheek. “Mr Turner! Bill! Open your eyes, man, talk to me!”

He felt the great shaking breath shudder through Bill before he saw the flutter of eyelashes. Oh, thank Christ, he was alive, alive! Jack put his mouth to the wound on Bill’s neck, and sucked hard, hard enough to mark; Bill grunted as Jack spat out a mouthful of bitter-tasting blood, and sucked again.

Shaftoe had crawled over to Gill, who was whimpering more quietly now, and was talking to him in a low voice, patting him on the shoulder as though he were a spooked horse. Jack watched with half an eye as he spat Bill’s blood on the ground; Shaftoe unbuckled Gill’s belt and tied it, tight, just below the man’s shoulder. He searched about for a stick, and shoved it into the belt, and twisted it round, tightening the tourniquet. Gill cried out again, and Shaftoe put a hand over his mouth till he was quiet.

Bill was moaning a little, frowning. “Shh, shh, it’s all right,” lied Jack, convincingly he hoped. “I’m getting it all out, Bill, just be patient a little longer.” He sucked again, bit down hard in a wide circle around the puncture, and then Shaftoe was at his side, and murmuring close to his ear, “Jack, he says he cain’t feel his hands and feet no more.”

“A paralytic, then,” said Jack, having suspected this already.

“Aye. I’ve tied the tourniquet tight as I can; but we were slow, and if the poison’s made it past his shoulder already—“

Shaftoe fell silent, but Jack knew what he meant. They looked at each other, and at Bill, who’d gone pale, and though his eyes flickered open from time to time there was little expression in them. He was barely moving, but that was to the good, lying still would slow the progress of the stuff through his body. But it had to be purged, and fast.

Jack fumbled in his boot for a small knife he kept strapped there. “Bill,” he said, “Bill, mate, I need to cut you. I’ll be quick, I swear.”

Sweat seemed to be pouring out of him, his fingers felt slippery on the knife handle. He put the blade to the vein on Bill’s throat, and at the touch of cool metal Bill’s brown eyes flew open; he stared at Jack, and swallowed laboriously. “Kuh… Kitty,” he mumbled.

“I know, mate, Kitty an’ little Will, don’t you worry about it, you’ll see ‘em again,” said Jack Shaftoe, and he put a brown hand to Bill’s shoulder. “Jack knows what he’s doin’, just let him, eh? Just a little prick. Go on, Jack, Bill’s ready now,” he said, and he gave Jack a look that said, _It’s the right thing, you have to do’t, and we trust you._ Jack set his jaw, and nodded, and tried to smile at Bill, and repeated, “Just a little prick.”

“Just like Don Esteban, eh?” murmured Shaftoe, and the corner of Bill’s mouth quirked up almost imperceptibly; and Jack pressed down.

The spurt of blood was distressingly high, and Jack did not rear back fast enough, but felt it hot upon his rain-wet face. It splattered down upon Bill, too, and the fine misty rain pattered and puddled it into paler and paler streaks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack chanted under his breath, but he held his nerve, and let it pulse three, four times. He’d seen men lose more blood than that and live to tell of it; the only question now was whether he could staunch it. He pressed the heel of his hand against the wound, crushing down, hoping Bill could still breathe, but the blood pulsed its way out against his skin.

“Jack, take off my sash, quickly,” he ordered, and Shaftoe simply picked up the knife that Jack’d dropped in the mud, pulled Jack’s coat out of the way, and sliced through the sash, ignoring the knot. They flicked the very quickest of glances at one another, taking but a second to have a conversation regarding this choice of approach and their respective opinions thereof, and then Shaftoe’d folded it into a solid pack and Jack pressed it against Bill’s neck.

“My legs,” Gill moaned. “My legs!”

Shaftoe leapt up, and tightened the tourniquet again. Gill squealed. “It’s alright, mate,” said Shaftoe, though with less conviction this time. The only alternative, surely, was to take off the arm, hard and fast and now; and frankly, it didn’t look as though that was likely to be a useful course of action.

“Martingale,” said Jack, suddenly, his head whirling. “Jack, you must go and find Jamie Martingale, he’s all by himself in that fuckin’ jungle.”

“He’s dead,” said Shaftoe shortly. “You may lay on that; and I won’t leave you, besides.”

“Yes you fucking well _will_ ,” snapped Jack. “We don’t know he’s dead, and I’m all right here, you took care of our Guide.”

“We don’t know how many others might be out there!”

“All the more reason to get Martingale if we can, and bring up our numbers. Go, Jack. That’s an order.”

The words were so hard to wrench out of himself; a large, large part of him was wailing and thrashing and insisting that having Jack Shaftoe here at his side was the only thing that would possibly keep him together. Oh, Christ, to send Shaftoe out there alone, where he might fall to some silent dart and have no-one there to aid him! The fear was mountainous, cold and black and huge. But Jack knew full well that, had it been any other man than Jack Shaftoe, he would’ve given the order; and he could not claim to be any sort of captain if he would not give an order that he would not follow himself, or would not ask his dear Jack Shaftoe to follow.

Shaftoe was kneeling, now, in the reedy mud on the other side of Bill, with a pleading look on his face. “Jack,” he was saying, “Jack, don’t make me do it. Don’t make me leave you here.”

Jack licked his lips; rain and blood and earth. He looked at Jack Shaftoe, hair all darkened with rain and mud, blue eyes wild. He held the bandage hard to Bill’s throat with his right hand, and knelt up, pulling Shaftoe close with his left arm. Shaftoe’s arms went around him, strong and quick, and for a long lovely moment Jack buried his face against Shaftoe’s neck, sucking up strength from the heat of Shaftoe’s embrace; then he pulled away.

“Go on, mate,” he said, “I’m fine; they can’t’ve got far, I’m sure you’ll be back quick as can be.”

Shaftoe looked all set to argue, and Jack narrowed his eyes warningly; to his relief, Shaftoe lurched to his feet. He kicked over Robin’s body, and pulled out his knife, wiping the blade on the dead man’s hair. “Stay low,” he said to Jack. “Stay low and quiet, damn you, and I’ll be back soon.”

Jack nodded, and swallowed the ridiculous urge that was welling in his throat, a desire to declare some sort of excessive affection for Jack Shaftoe, to use words that he’d only used before in ungentlemanly attempts to bend resistant women to his will, or maybe, long ago, curled on the lap of his mam. Now was not the time, now was not the place. He turned back to Bill, whose breathing was shallow, and who had not opened his eyes since Jack bled him, and he ignored the little voice that was clamouring, _But what if this is the last time, what if this is the only place?_

“Take care, Jack,” he said to the retreating sounds of Shaftoe disappearing into the jungle. _Take care, love._

Silence fell again, and after a minute or two, Jack thought it time to test Bill’s state; gently, he released the pressure he was applying to the blood-soaked rag that’d once been his favourite sash.

Bad decision. Blood, oh shit, blood everywhere, and Jack swore venomously and pressed down hard again.

“Captain,” whimpered Andrew Gill, from over against his tree; he hadn't budged, perhaps could not. When he spoke, his lips barely moved. He began to sob, a wretched, keening sound that tore at Jack’s heart, no matter that Gill’d been such a bastard Doubting Thomas yesterday. “Oh, Captain, oh Jack, help me. Please help me, don’t let me die here.”

“You ain’t going to die,” said Jack. “Shaftoe and Martingale’ll be back shortly, and then we’ll move on, an’ we’ll get Enoch Root, and he’ll make you well, Andrew, you an’ Bill both.” He could barely look at the fellow as he said it, it took all his will to raise his eyes and try, oh try, to reassure his man.

It didn’t seem to work; Gill keened all the louder, loud enough that Bill groaned and his eyes flickered open, loud enough that Jack had to hiss, “Shhh! Hush man, we don’t know who else is out there! Shut your trap!”

“I can’t fuckin’ move!” Gill was shrieking through barely parted lips. “Inside, Jack, oh fuck it’s like knives and I can’t—oh Jack please please help me, please, cut me like you did Bill, oh help me!”

Jack clambered over Bill, keeping one hand on the bandage, reaching t’ward Gill, trying to give him some sort of reassurance, some human touch, some comfort as the end (he was sure it was the end) came; but stretch as he might, he could not reach him, and he could feel the welling of blood from Bill as his grip loosened. He shuffled back to Bill’s side, and Bill was trying to say something, barely audible over Gill’s carry-on. Jack leaned down.

“Go to him, needs you. ‘M’ all right,” mumbled Bill.

It was so damned _Bill_ ; Jack shook his head in admiration for his friend. But, “I can’t,” he said. “You need me more; an’ if I have to choose, Bill, I choose you. He’s done for, mate. But you; Christ, I’ll never give up on you, Bill Turner. Never. So don’t you fuckin’ give up either. Shut up and breathe.”

Bill said no more, shook his head and closed his eyes. To Gill, Jack called, “Andrew; Andrew, listen to me. I ain’t about to lie to you; it don’t look good. But I want you to know that you were a good man to have aboard our ship” (the veracity of this statement really didn’t seem to be the important point, right now) “and if the worst happens, and you don’t make it, I’ll be sure and see that your girl in Tortuga and your ma back home get all your share, and know you ended brave and true.”

Gill had fallen silent, save for the forced and whistly sound of his breathing. His eyes were open, and full of shiny fear, though his face was a blank. Jack did not know if Gill could still see him, or hear him.

“Goodbye, Andrew,” he said. “Fair seas to you, and bright skies.”

The whistling breaths stopped, and the light in Gill’s eyes went out; Jack was alone in the murmuring jungle, with two dead men and dying Bill Turner.


	31. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-One

  
  
Jack believed in the path less than ever. Only his sense of direction -- doubtless befuddled by the relentless rain (though not many drops found their way through the toothy maze of foliage) and the sheer foreignness of the place, not to mention the natural disorientation that came from having been afloat, at the mercy of wind and water, for so very long -- kept him running in the approximate direction of the seashore, and the Dutch village, and Will, their erstwhile guide.

Never mind stealth, or keeping a low profile. Jack's sword was in his hand, hacking at the malevolent Botany that coiled, spiked and tangled before him. Somewhere ahead of him (or quite likely off to one side: Jack paused, cocking his head, but could hear nothing over the roar of the rain above him) was Jamie Martingale, or more likely his swollen, empurpled corpse. Martingale located, and rescued if he were in a fit state to appreciate it, Jack could return to Jack Sparrow's side: a position he should never have left, no, not for one moment.

Poor bloody Bill! And poor old Gill, too, though Jack did not really fancy the fellow's chances. Jack Sparrow might keep one man alive, but surely he could not preserve them both. If --

But there was a sound from ahead of him, close enough to carry over the noise of the jungle: a man's voice. An _Englishman_ 's voice. Complaining.

Jack edged towards the sound, treading carefully, peering through a covert of gnarly grey-barked trees. He saw a flash of something pale -- a man's shirt -- and the glint of metal.

"But I don't _understand_ ," Jamie Martingale, alive and, if not kicking, at least arguing, was saying. Jack was surprised at the warmth that suffused him. One of their party was neither dead nor poisoned, but in his usual rude health. And that spoke well for Will the Warao, too, who Jack could see standing before Martingale, close enough to touch.

It would've been amusing to spy upon the two of them, and perhaps see what tricks Mr Martingale (a veritable harlot, according to Sparrow) would demonstrate for his new friend: but Jack did not like his chances, not against a genuine native of the country. A man who even now, alerted by the crack of a twig 'neath Jack's boot, was scowling at Jack, and holding a small white pipe, no bigger than the tobacco-pipes Jack had smoked back in Wapping but (Jack deduced from Will's stance) rather more lethal.

"Mr Martingale!" he called, grinning, wrestling himself free from the barbed undergrowth.

"Jack!" cried Martingale: then, seeing Jack's ferocious expression, "what's amiss?"

"Robin's dead," said Jack, and he flexed his hand on his sword-hilt and stared hard at Will. "I killed him. An' I'll lay _you_ knew what he was about."

"But --" said Martingale: good lad, his knife was out instantly, though he didn't look especially happy to be confronting Will with such a weapon. The Imp whispered a crude joke concerning alternative means of combat; but now was probably not the time to share it.

"I knew he meant harm," said Will slowly. His voice was deep, and his vowels long: Dutchman's English. "But not when, not how."

"Handy coincidence, your losing the way just then," said Jack, bringing his sword up in a more threatening stance.

"Tell me, Jack, tell me what's happened!" insisted Martingale.

Will spread his hands slowly. "It was true: I think he, Robin, he led you the wrong way."

"Are there more of you? More waiting to attack?" Jack demanded.

"I do not know. He did not speak of it: no doubt he thought to slay me with the others."

"Well, then," said Jack testily, "perhaps, instead of standing around in this delightful woodland making conversation, we might keep our heads down and rejoin our party. What remains of it, at any rate."

"Follow me," said Will, and strode off in (as far as Jack could tell) an utterly random direction.

Martingale beckoned to Jack, and went after the Warao.

"You're going to trust him?" demanded Jack, standing still.

"There's no one else!" said Martingale. "An' there's two of us, Jack: we c'n take him." He held a branch aside so that Jack could come up with him. "What happened up there? Is the Captain ... I mean, are ..."

"Bootstrap took a dart in the neck," said Jack, ducking as the branch sprang back a moment too soon. "Poison: Gill got one too, in the arm, and I din't get to him as quick. Jack Sparrow's with them both, but ..."

Until now Jack, all set on his Rescue Mission, had fought down the memory of Jack Sparrow's voice as he'd said, "That's an order": of his face, as Jack'd embraced him: of how Jack himself had pleaded not to be sent away, and how Jack Sparrow'd insisted on it. Good man, Jack told himself bracingly. Good captain, knowing what needs doing.

But now the spectral image of Jack Sparrow, alone in the rain with (surely, by now) two corpses, not knowing whether Jack himself would ever return, starting at every jungle-sound and cracking branch, filled Jack's heart with a kind of sympathetic horror. Martingale had slowed, the better to hear Jack's account: Jack pushed past him, and said over his shoulder, "We have to hurry. Jack Sparrow's all alone." Oh, it sounded feeble and cozening: but Jamie simply nodded, all grave, and came along more quickly.

"The village is not far, now," said Will calmly to Jack.

"Oh, really?" said Jack. "So, having escaped your mate's attack -- and assuming we manage to elude whatever _friends_ he invited along -- we can walk into the, what was it, the bloody arms of the Chibcha?"

Will shrugged. "You would rather return to the Dutchmen, empty-handed?"

"I'd rather return to Jack Sparrow, mate," said Jack. He wiped rainwater from his brow -- his hand came away red, from a myriad little scratches that he had not noticed 'til now -- and glared at Will, sure that the Indian could read every sentiment on his face.

"Stop," said Will, and his arm came up like a bar in front of Jack. "Stop now."

* * *

He was at sea, surely he was at sea, for there was a gentle motion rocking him like a babe in a cot, and the rushing of waves in his ear.

Somewhere a long way away, Jack Sparrow was saying his name. "Speak up," Bill wanted to say, but he must've overdone the rum last night, or risked some of that vicious clear stuff they bottled in the far north: his mouth was all numb. He bit at his lip, but could not feel a thing. Handy stuff, this rum, or whatever it was. Jack was hanging over him as if he'd been hurt. Maybe 'twas opium, or one of Enoch Root's fancy concoctions, like the one that'd kept Shaftoe all smiling and happy when those fuckin' Spaniards'd chopped his finger off.

Bill tried to flex his fingers, just to have a quick count, just in case: but nothing seemed to happen.

"Bill. Bill Turner!" Jack was saying. "Can you hear me, Bill? Blink if you're listening, mate: though I have to tell you, I'm _ordering_ you to listen, an' I don't care if you're co-captain now, Mr Turner, you still do as I tell you. Right, Bill?"

Bollocks to that, thought Bill: but he blinked anyway, for Jack sounded remarkably upset. Perhaps something had happened to Jack Shaftoe. For all Bill's differences of opinion with Mr Shaftoe, he couldn't deny his captain's affection for the man. And Shaftoe's heart was in the right place. 'Less it'd been ripped out and devoured by some jungle savage, of course: and why would that happen, out here on the milky grey ebb-tide, safe on the sea?

"Bill, mate, there's someone coming, I can hear them," Jack was saying. "Can you hear them, Bill? Blink if you can."

Bill listened hard, really he did: but there was a gale roaring, and water everywhere -- spray on his face, though it felt wrong -- and the noise of the waves and the rushing tide all around them. How could he be expected to hear another boat in this raging sea? Really, Jack Sparrow was taking this co-captaincy a bit too seriously. Couldn't Bill leave him to it, just for once?

His belly hurt, from all that rum: his head hurt. Just a little sleep, aye, and then Jack could pester him all he liked. Demote him, with any luck. Bill din't want to be captain. Jack was his captain: Jack was ...

* * *

No more than noon, surely -- it felt as though he'd sat here in the mud forever watching Bill die -- but the sky above, where Jack could glimpse it through the rich tropical growth, was very dark. More rain coming, and Jack didn't care to be caught in it. But there were worse fates: poor Bill here with his breath all rattly in his throat, and his pulse fluttery under Jack's hand. Poor Gill (Jack'd shifted, so that he did not have to look at the corpse any more) over there, flesh all dull purple and eyeballs bulging out of his skull. Miserable bastard, he'd been: but he was Jack's man, and Jack would mourn him later. If later ever came.

Oh Christ, Jack Shaftoe out there alone in the jungle, searching for Martingale. Jack entertained himself with a brief, glorious review of the look on Shaftoe's face as he'd taken Robin down, avenging Gill and Bootstrap both. If Martingale had been harmed, and Shaftoe had caught up with Will, the second Warao was surely dead and diced by now. The thought was briefly warming.

"Not that Jack Shaftoe can track anything worth a damn," said Jack fondly to Bill. "But I reckon he'll find a way. Never fails to surprise me, that fellow." Oh, unfair to abuse such a very captive audience with his thoughts of dear Jack Shaftoe! But Bill wasn't even blinking now, no matter what Jack said: there was only that faltering feeble pulse to show that he still lived.

"Christ, mate," Jack went on, with some notion of _disgusting_ Bill back to life, "you should see him coming apart for me, when we're alone. When I put my mouth to him, or my hands, or, well, p'rhaps you can imagine the rest, eh? I swear I've never seen anything so fine." He leaned closer, peering at Bill. Had that been a flinch? "Bill," he said, "I hate to tell you this, but I think I --"

"Captain Sparrow!" came a cry: Jack swallowed an irrational bubble of annoyance at this interruption of his monologue, and another more substantial wave of disappointment that the voice belonged neither to Jack Shaftoe nor to Jamie Martingale, who Shaftoe'd gone to seek. But then Jack realised who the voice's owner _was_ , rather than was _not_ : and he sat up straighter (steadying poor Bill on his lap) and exclaimed, "Well met, John Burton!"

Burton looked almost shockingly alive, compared to the last time that Jack'd seen him. His skin (beneath a patina of soot, clay and what appeared to be the sap of crushed leaves) was sun-darkened, and there was a smile on his face, a light in his eye, that had not been there at their farewell, a month since.

"Captain?" he said, dropping to his haunches beside Jack. "You all right? Poor bloody Bill: still going, is he?"

"Aye," said Jack, and his smile faded as he looked back down at Bill, all grey-skinned and corpsy, nigh as bad as Gill. "But I durstn't take my hand away, for fear he'll bleed himself dry."

"These fellows know how best to treat such wounds," said Burton, waving behind him: and now Jack could see three dark, silent figures, long spears in their hands, standing not ten feet from him. One stepped forward and crouched beside poor Andrew Gill's body, reaching out to touch the hollow of his throat: but he shook his head. Jack did not see what the man, the Indian, did next, but when he looked again, those horrid staring pop-eyes were closed, and Gill looked more at peace than Jack had ever seen him.

"These'll be Enoch's mates the Chibcha, then," he said to Burton.

Burton nodded.

"Funny thing, that," said Jack. His legs were cramping, and Bill's pulse was more erratic than ever: could Bill hear Burton's voice, or the arrival of these notorious Indians? "Funny thing," said Jack again, "for Johannes Koeppel, who I reckon must be a near neighbour of yours these days, was telling us just this morning how you'd been taken captive by an especially bloodthirsty tribe."

"Bloodthirsty?" said Burton, grinning. "Bloody Koeppel ain't got a clue, Jack: now, _I_ \--"

There was a shout, and a man's raised voice, speaking a tongue that Jack did not know: a gleam of bright metal, and a flash of teeth.


	32. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Two

  


Jack started, his heart lurched, his spare hand was fumbling for his pistol. Who the fuck was—

—but then, oh then, Jack Shaftoe, _Jack Shaftoe_ , was dropping to his knees right next to Jack, close enough to touch.

“Jack,” he was demanding, “who in hell are these—” He stopped short as his scowling gaze lit upon John Burton, and recognition bloomed. “Burton! Oh, well met! But, these fellows—what—who—?”

“Friends,” said Burton shortly. “It’s fine, Jack, they’re friends.”

“Are _you_ ‘right?” Jack asked, wanting rather badly to clutch Shaftoe to him; instead, given the circumstances, he left his pistol where it was and squeezed Shaftoe’s muddy knee, all bone and muscle ‘neath his wretchedly squalid breeches.

“Aye, me and Jamie both—you?” Shaftoe glanced up at Burton’s companions, but it was a rapid flicker of attention, no more. His gaze was all on Jack, and Jack drank it up like mother’s milk.

“Fine, but Bill ain’t got much longer, I—”

There came a commotion off to the side of the path, and Jack looked up to see Jamie Martingale, entirely unharmed by the look of him; he was shouting, and shoving Burton’s Indian mates (rather ineffectually). The two Chibcha had a hold of that Will, and a third stood behind him with a twist of vine about Will’s throat. Jack sneered to see that damned Warao still alive; he’d thought Shaftoe would’ve taken care of that, if Martingale hadn’t.

“Stop it!” Martingale was shouting. “He can’t breathe properly! John, oh John is that you? Tell them to leave him be!”

Burton stood. “He’s Warao, Jamie,” he said. “He’s with the ones who’ve been killing the Dutch; killing ‘em, and blaming the Chibcha for’t. They ain’t about to let him live. Say goodbye.”

Martingale wailed, and Will kicked out as the vine about his neck was twisted tighter, and his face went all purple-grey. ‘Twasn’t a pleasant sight; still, Jack couldn’t say he felt too much sympathy. Not while he sat here beside Bill Turner, so near death. Not while he could still see poor murthered Andrew Gill, slumped in the undergrowth.

But Shaftoe, unexpectedly, was arguing with Burton, all loud and indignant. Something about Will doing no harm to Jamie Martingale, nor to himself; about Will having led them the right way, not astray as Robin had done. About waiting.

“Take him a prisoner if you must, John, but there’s been enough killing,” Shaftoe insisted. “He ain’t the important thing, now.”

Jack had to agree with that one. “What about Bill?” he said urgently. “John, you said they could help Bill.”

Burton pursed his lips, as if this was a bit of a tall order; but Martingale was perfectly hysterical, was kicking the Indian who held the garrotte and was clearly about to do something rather foolish unless someone intervened. “Djagdao!” said Burton, and the garrotter scowled at him, ferocious under his dark mudlines.

“Stop, please,” said Burton, reaching out and touching the vine.

“Why?” said Djagdao, surprising Jack more than a little with this evidence of multilingualism.

“This man did not harm my friends,” said Burton. “He helped them. Please, I ask you, do not kill him.”

Djagdao snorted wetly, a disgusted sound, but he released Will, who gagged and gasped and fell to his knees, Martingale beside him.

“Our other friend,” said Burton, “needs help. Can you aid him?”

Djagdao and one other Indian came over, crouched by Bill. Jack could smell them, smell the dark grease they smeared upon their skin. They wore only cloths about their waists, and skin pouches tied about them; their hair was wetly black, cut short and round.

“Tell me,” said the second Indian to Jack, gesturing at Bill, wanting, Jack deduced, to know what’d happened. Shaftoe scrambled up and retrieved the dart from where it lay in the mud; handed it to the man, and he grunted.

“And I sucked the poison,” said Jack, “but it weren’t enough; so I cut him, and that’s where all the blood’s from.”

The Chibcha talked low and fast, and then shouted at their companion; he grunted, and sloped off into the jungle. Djagdao took some bark from one of his pouches, and popped it in his mouth, chewing hard for a minute or two; then pulled out the mulched wood, and pushed at Jack’s hand, where he held the padded, bloodied sash in place. Jack could not help it; he resisted, and Djagdao growled something at him, and at Burton.

“Let him, Jack,” said Shaftoe sharply; Jack managed somehow to comply, and saw that the bleeding had subsided now, was merely oozing, not pulsing as it had. The Indian pressed the chewed woodpulp against the wound; and when his companion emerged from the jungle with three fat brown seedpods, he broke them open, and shoved the handful of black seeds into his mouth, cracking them loudly. One of the others passed him a large flat leaf, and he carefully spat the mess out into it; then they rolled the leaf tight, and, scraping off the woodpulp, wrung the leaf over Bill’s neck. A thin grey spittly liquid dripped down; this they rubbed in, and then applied the remainder of the chewed seeds, and the wood pulp again.

Jack looked over at Shaftoe, and he was grinning, the monster: “Ah, Jack,” he said, “I can’t wait to tell Bill ‘bout how you put your mouth to him, and then let a savage cover him in chawed up spittings. He’s going to love it, ain’t ‘e?”

_If he makes it_ , thought Jack grimly, but he nodded, and made himself grin back. “Bound to be happy as a sandboy,” he agreed.

Martingale brought over a fairly clean strip of linen, held it out. “Gill don’t need his shirt no more,” he said, sadly. The second Chibcha took it from him, and bound his poultice to Bill’s neck.

“Home, now,” said Djagdao to Burton.

“Yes,” said Burton, and before Jack could ask, he’d picked up Turner as though he were no more’n a child, and he and his savages were walking off into the dim green, one of ‘em gripping Will tight about his arm.

“What about Gill?” said Martingale worriedly. But Jack could not spare much love for him, now; not when Bill Turner’s life still hung in the balance. “The jungle’s his resting place,” he said shortly. “He’ll not be here, tomorrow.” And he followed John Burton into the trees.

*

It’d been near dark by the time they made the Chibcha village; a collection of long, low huts around a muddy clearing, strewn with leaves, a great fire-pit in its centre. Jack Shaftoe’d seldom been as happy to arrive anywhere in his life, and as for the relief of seeing Enoch Root, why, that was something else again. Enoch had been most delighted to see them; then suspicious; then distracted onto the problem of Bill Turner.

The Indians had taken Turner to a hut and given him over to the care of a wizened hag who, once they’d laid him down and told her his story, pushed them all out of her hovel, and wouldn’t let them back in; now, as they sat about the great fire, thin quavery chanting could be heard. Occasionally, a pretty naked girl ran out of the hut on some urgent errand, and then disappeared back into the smoky dark. Jack hoped Bill was awake enough to see that. He’d like it.

The Warao they’d tied to a post; Burton said they’d decide tomorrow what was to be done with him. In the meantime, Martingale seemed to be the man’s self-appointed advocate. He sat beside him, on the other side of the fire, and talked with him, all low. Jack did not trust Martingale’s intentions, one bit. But ‘twas better that Martingale was pre-occupied with this new friend than giving Jack his big-eyed looks.

“Here,” said Burton, coming over with wooden bowls in which a thin stew steamed. “Eat.”

Jack took it gratefully, and Burton sat himself down with them, as Enoch tried to distract Jack Sparrow’s attention away from the direction of Bill’s unlikely sanatorium.

“Trust them, Captain Sparrow; they’ve a deal of experience, treating these poisons.”

“Should fucking well hope so,” muttered Sparrow. “Savages, shooting a fellow for no reason.”

“I assure you, their reasoning is admirably sound,” said Enoch, with an enthusiasm that Jack couldn’t help but think was a little inappropriate. “The Warao have been the enemy of the Chibcha for generations; now, they see the growing numbers of white men, with their superior weapons, and they seek to turn that power against the Chibcha. To that end, they’ve been carrying out secret raids against traders and settlements all up the coast, all the while befriending the survivors, and implicating their enemies. So you see, it makes perfect sense for them to have attempted to murder you.”

“Oh, that’s all right then. As long as it was utterly _rational_.”

Enoch ignored the unsubtle sarcasm, and said, “The reason for your presence here is, however, less apparent.”

Jack and Sparrow exchanged glances, and Jack felt queasy. This was it; this was the point at which they would be given hope, or…

Or, condemned to years of watching Jack Sparrow fight his sickness, suffering deeper and longer with each bout; of Jack himself starting to feel, ever more keenly, the teeth and claws of the Pox; of their sanity leaching away, slowly but surely, and all the glorious potential of this… thing between them being remorselessly smothered, snuffed, murdered. He could see in Sparrow’s eyes that the same thoughts were scrabbling around in his head. He swallowed, and drained the last of his bowl.

“I’ve been… ill,” said Sparrow eventually.

“With…?” said Enoch delicately, and Jack snorted.

“Don’t give us that, Enoch; you know what he means. You know the pair of us are pox’d. Jack had the most dire bout, a week or so back; and we found an alchemist who claimed a cure, but that… it near killed him,” Jack said, clenching his jaw against the memory of Sparrow, limp and senseless, breath rattling wetly in his throat, covered in that black muck.

“And Bill,” said Sparrow, looking off into the dark again, “Bill… he thought to seek you out, Enoch. To ask you if you’ve… if you’ve a remedy.”

“Because we heard you say, some time past,” put in Jack, “that the Chibcha had all manner of curatives.”

“And I mayn’t be so very bad now, but I swear to you, Enoch, there was a pain in me, well, down there, whenever I was, you know, a bit enthused…” Sparrow illustrated the concept with highly descriptive expressions, both manual and facial, so effectively that it made Jack wince in sympathy. “And the chancres came up, and boils; abominable it was.”

“And he wasn’t himself, neither,” supplied Jack. “Foul tempered, and confused.”

Enoch listened attentively to these complaints, fingering his beard. “I see,” he said, and “Hmm.”

“I ‘member your giving me something, a few times,” said Jack, “that eased it back down. Though I wasn’t as bad as Jack, ever. Yet.”

Enoch hmmmm’d some more, and shook his head. “Mere palliatives, symptomatic alleviation; I fear that’s all that I gave you,” he said.

“I wouldn’t’ve said no to a palliative, a few days back,” said Sparrow. He’d inched closer to Jack; their knees touched. ‘T’wasn’t enough; the urge to be close, closer, at this pivotal juncture, was overwhelming. Jack put down his bowl, and spread his hand over Sparrow’s thigh, before he could make himself ask: “Is there aught else you can do, Enoch? Anything to… to make him, to make us, well?”

The silence was endless; Jack could feel each beat of his heart, felt as though he could feel every beat of Jack Sparrow’s too, though the pirate’s face was impassive. Enoch Root stared into the heart of the fire; sparks rose up, into the star-speckled sky, and the chanting in the hut behind them grew to a nasal wail.

At last Enoch spoke. “I can’t help you,” he said.

Jack dropped his head, sick with disappointment; but he mastered it, and had just lifted his head again, ready to argue, to plead, to threaten if necessary, when Enoch added, “But I know a man who might. If he chooses to.”

“Chooses to?” demanded Jack. “What d’you mean? Why would he not?” Sparrow was scowling too, and said, “If it’s a question of payment, Enoch, I assure you I’m perfectly able to—“

“No, no,” said Enoch Root. “Not a question of payment at all. More a question of… worthiness, in this gentleman’s eyes. Like many peoples, the Chibcha believe that sickness is a punishment, meted out by a higher power; that it is visited upon its victim for a reason.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” sighed Sparrow theatrickally. “Not that _wages of sin_ crap again.”

Enoch’s mouth twitched. “Something like that. However, the Chibcha are different in two respects; firstly, gentlemen, they believe that if you can prove that sinful ways are behind you, then you are deserving of a cure.”

Jack looked at Sparrow, and reflected that, being as he was more or less the living embodiment of sin, Jack Sparrow might have a little difficulty proving such a claim. Sparrow’s glance back at him mirrored the thought, and they both grinned; Sparrow leaned close, and whispered to Jack, “Mate, if I have to put sinful ways behind me, there ain’t much point in getting cured is there? Might as well be dead as not be able to have you in my bed, Jack Shaftoe.”

A charming declaration; but one with a thoroughly charmless outcome. “What’s sin, anyway?” argued Jack. “Needs definition, that does.”

Enoch nodded approvingly. “Jack, I knew there was a reason I’d brought you out here in the first place. You’ve an interesting way of looking at the world.”

Sparrow, still leaning with his chin on Jack’s shoulder, whispered wickedly, “You’ve an interesting way of looking at _me_ , an’ all; most affecting, it is.” Jack smacked him, ostensibly to teach him some manners, but mostly because it was a good excuse for putting his hand on Jack Sparrow. Who sat up straight, though he looked utterly unrepentant, and to Enoch, said, “And the second respect? In which the Chibcha differ?”

“Why, Captain Sparrow,” said Enoch, firelight glinting orange in his beard; “The second respect is that the Chibcha—alone of all the peoples of my acquaintance—actually have a true cure.”


	33. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Three

  
  
Night came early in these latitudes: somewhere beyond the smothering grey, the sun had set, and now the night crowded round them, close and noisy with the yammering of birds and beasts out there in the jungle. Out there, where Andrew Gill, awkward sod and brave fighter, lay dead and, no doubt, already dinner. At least it had stopped raining.

Night came early, all right, but not early enough for Jack Sparrow, who longed more than anything for rest, and the temporary oblivion of sleep -- "There's nothing more you can do for him, Jack," Enoch had said, setting a hand on Jack's arm to prevent him barging in on the crone who was tending Bill Turner, "save wait for the morrow" -- and, ooh yes, that'd salve the grimmest situation, an _interlude_ alone with Jack Shaftoe.

Shaftoe kept touching Jack. The touches were not quite caresses: several of them, in fact, had been blows of varying severity and sincerity, and others had been fleeting contacts, so slight they might've looked accidental. But they did not _feel_ accidental, not to Jack: every one of 'em was like a ray of warm sunlight, a flicker of flame, a brand, a firework (as exotic in its way as any of those green nebulae that Shaftoe'd burst over the bay), and Jack was immeasurably warmed by them.

He waited for Enoch Root's gaze to fall upon the two of them once more (this did not take long: Enoch seemed fascinated by the new warmth, the easiness 'tween the two of them, and Jack could tell that his careful observations were making Jack Shaftoe deliciously tense and twitchy -- delicious, because of the techniques that Jack was marshalling for the relief of that tension) then yawned again, slow and deliberate.

"Tired, Captain Sparrow?" enquired Jack Shaftoe with admirable sang-froid, though the corner of his mouth twitched and he would not meet Jack's eye.

"Maybe a little," conceded Jack, trying to balance the very real need to talk with Enoch and Burton, and learn more of the Chibcha and their cure and their war with the Warao, with his overwhelming desire to be alone, naked, with Jack Shaftoe. "Must be getting late, eh?"

"You c'n share with me, Captain," said Burton eagerly. "Plenty of space, there is, and the ground's quite dry."

Jack bit back a curse. "That's ever so kind of you, Mr Burton," he said, hoping that any shortfall on the gratitude scale would be attributed to fatigue, and to Jack's concern for Bootstrap. "Wouldn't want to put you out, at all."

"No, Captain, 'tis no trouble," Burton insisted, grinning. "Room for Mr Shaftoe, an' all. And Mr Martingale, when he's done tormenting that Will. Reckon we'd best stick together, eh?"

"Oh, certainly," agreed Jack, scowling into the embers. "Safety in numbers: absolutely."

The Chibcha -- a reserved and sly-eyed bunch -- had fed their guests with some sort of roasted meat, and an evil green brew that tasted of rotten fruit and made Jack's brain rattle in his skull. Getting to his feet proved rather more problematic than he'd expected: but Shaftoe reached down and hauled him upright, all steady and strong and warm, and Jack barely resisted the urge to pretend feeble clumsiness, just to have those hands managing him again, steering and leading him. He compromised by staggering slightly, so that Shaftoe would offer him a shoulder to lean on.

"Goodnight, Captain," said Enoch from his fireside place. Jack could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Night, Enoch," he said. "We'll talk tomorrow, eh?"

Burton's hut, nestled at the very edge of the jungle, resembled nothing so much as an especially bushy thicket. Once through the vine-curtained opening, though, the interior was surprisingly spacious. There was a broad pallet of springy boughs, and a pile of blankets, and a long plank of wood that looked as though it might once have been half of a canoe.

"You c'n have the bed," said Burton. In the dim, infernal light from the fire outside, his face seemed rather red.

"An' where'll _you_ sleep, mate?" enquired Jack Shaftoe. "Seems to me there's hardly space for two in here, never mind four."

"Oh," said Burton, abashed. "I, that is, I've a, a _friend_ to see." He looked up, and said heatedly, "I don't mean to say I've forgotten Ben, nor --"

"I never thought it," Jack assured him. "He'd wish you happy, John, and I do too."

"Aye," said Shaftoe. "Life's too short to turn your back on, on happiness, where'er you find it." And his arm snaked about Jack's waist, all warm and muscly, and squeezed.

Jack wanted to swoon in his arms, to fall down with him 'pon that piled bed and get as close as might be to the virile, heated happiness that Jack Shaftoe incarnated: but he managed to restrain himself 'til Burton, beaming, had left them.

Shaftoe was braced for it, and let himself be borne down, writhing and huffing with laughter, beneath Jack. His broad hands were on Jack's hips, pressing him tight and close in case there should be any doubt of Shaftoe's enthusiasm -- just as evident as Jack's -- for this unexpected but profoundly desired privacy.

"Martingale'll be back any moment," he murmured in Jack's ear. "Better make it quick, eh?"

" _Fuck_ Martingale: I --"

"Oh, I'd much rather fuck _you_ , Jack Sparrow," Shaftoe interrupted, getting one hand inside Jack's breeches.

"What I was _going_ to say was, I've no desire to rush things," said Jack.

"There's rush and there's haste," said Shaftoe. "D'you mean to say that you don't think I can bring you off in, oooh, less than half a glass?"

"I'm sure of it, Mr Shaftoe," purred Jack. "An' I'll lay I can do as well: for you seem delightfully _susceptible_ , when it comes to my hands on you."

"Hands? Mouth."

Jack sighed theatrickally at this blatant piece of bargaining -- a sigh that became a moan as Shaftoe's hand wrapped itself, all hot and slow, 'round his prick -- and conceded that they might, perhaps, come to some mutually admissible arrangement. And oh _Christ_ this bed was noisy -- never mind Martingale or any other putative contubernal, the whole bloody _village_ must have smoked what they were up to! -- but Shaftoe was twisting around, twigs snapping unregarded beneath him: had his warm breath huffing 'gainst Jack's eager prick, at first through the cloth of his breeches but quickly _not_ , and Jack, feeling around in the dark for those parts of Jack Shaftoe most nearly adjacent to him, could not resist a stroke, a squeeze, a pinch of the tantalising curve of Shaftoe's arse.

"Oi," came Shaftoe's voice, muffled, from the region of Jack's groin. "Play nice, or --"

"Oh, I'll play nice," Jack assured him, hands swift on the buttons of Shaftoe's breeches. "I'll -- mmm, Jack, oh yes -- all that an' more, oh Christ go on, oooh ..."

And, with only a brief delay -- "better things to do with your mouth, mate, or I'll think you don't want _mine_ " -- Jack found himself enjoying this most perfectly synchronous of delights, with Shaftoe's quick hot mouth mimicking every act of Jack's own, and extemporising and inventing like the most talented harlot that Jack could possibly imagine.

Oh, quicker than anything, more rapid than the rush of his life's blood, Jack felt his climax rising in him: he moaned 'round Shaftoe's prick, and Shaftoe moaned too -- oh, delicious reciprocation! -- and pushed deeper into Jack's mouth, and Jack could feel him tensing; and suddenly he wanted _his_ climax done, the better to enjoy Jack Shaftoe's: a notion so very alien that it almost distracted him from the sudden gushing heat of it, of Shaftoe's mouth all tender 'round him, swallowing and swallowing, of Jack's long, triumphant groan.

Shaftoe licked away the last of it, noisily, and Jack redoubled his own efforts: for in the beat of silence that'd followed his happy moan, he'd heard voices, and footsteps, and seen the light flicker as someone passed between the hut and the fire.

He dug his fingers into the firm flesh of Jack Shaftoe's arse -- not the time to explore, though oh, the temptation -- and Shaftoe stiffened, and thrust, and cried out loud as he spent deep in Jack's throat.

There was suddenly more light, and Jack marshalled the wit and coordination to drag a blanket over the two of them. He could do nothing about the echo of Jack Shaftoe's broken cry, or the strong musky smell of sex: but he could glare at Jamie Martingale -- surely 'twas him, no one else would walk in so carefree -- as he stopped short, silhouetted 'gainst the light.

"I din't mean," said Martingale softly: then, drawing breath, "Sorry to disturb you, Captain; Mr Shaftoe."

It was dark, for Christ's sake: he'd not be able to see anything. "No problem, Jamie," said Jack, licking a last ammoniac drop from his beard. "There's a bed, of sorts, over there: no, other way." Shaftoe turned around noisily to lie next to Jack, and the resultant crackling and rustling drowned out whatever reply Jamie Martingale might've made. Jack heard him bark his shin on the plank-bed, and struggle with the blankets a while, and then sigh as (no doubt) he stretched out to sleep.

Jack meant to ask him about Will, the Warao who'd turned (why?) on his fellow and kept the _Pearl_ 's men alive: he meant to find out what'd happened 'tween Will and Martingale, all those long hours when the two of them -- one bound, one not -- had hunkered there in the clearing and talked together. But a delicious liquescent exhaustion was flowing over him, sweetly soporific, and it would wait, it would wait ...

* * *

Jack Shaftoe came instantly awake. There was a peculiar pale light infiltrating the musty green air of the hut: after a few moments of blinking -- lying very still, so's not to rouse his companions with tell-tale cracklings -- he identified it as moonlight. The cloud must've lifted.

But it was not the light that'd woken him.

Jack shut his eyes quickly as the dark figure at the (for want of a better term) 'doorway' turned: Martingale, surely, for Jack would've heard any intruder in this slapdash basket of an abode. What was Martingale about, in the middle of the night, that led him to sneak out -- carefully holding the vines aside so that they'd not rustle with his passing -- of the hut where his captain lay snoring?

Jack smiled, in the dark, at the simple peace of having Sparrow so deeply asleep at his side. But 'twouldn't do, to have him wake and find Jack gone: and whatever Martingale was up to, Jack wanted to know about it.

He turned over, and paused a moment lest anyone was listening outside: then, "Jack," he murmured 'gainst Sparrow's ear.

"Mmm?"

"Martingale's gone out. I'm after him. Back soon."

"No, let --"

Jack clamped his hand over Sparrow's mouth. "No," he insisted, scarcely louder than a whisper. "One of us should stay, just in case ..."

Sparrow's tongue swiped across his palm, and Jack tutted, and pressed harder. "None o' that," he said. "Back in a moment."

His breeches were more or less where he'd left them, and he borrowed Sparrow's shirt since it was first to hand: then out, less stealthy than Martingale, into the buttery moonlight. He looked around. The embers were grey now, and there was no one near the fire-place: but there, in the trees, the flicker of pale cloth. Jack hurried after it, trying to balance the need for silence with the necessity of keeping his quarry in sight.

Martingale did not go far. There was a path of trodden earth that led right through the village before petering out on the muddy bank of a stream. Jack halted, confused: but there was a noise off to his left, and he made his way as quietly as might be through the dark, graveolent vegetation, until another clearing opened before him. And there was Martingale, dark bandana leached of colour in the moonlight, standing all easy in the middle of that open space like, like an actress on a brightly-lit stage.

Jack had spent many a happy evening lurking in the wings of various theatres, though this was rather less salubrious than most. He crept closer to the chancy cover of a small tree: a pitcher-vine released its burden of rainwater and dead bugs over him, and Martingale's head whipped round as Jack bit back an appropriate observation. Jack hunched his shoulders and dipped his head, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of Martingale's expression. Not fear, as might strike any man alone in an savage-riddled jungle at night: no, Jamie Martingale had looked _eager_.

There was someone coming through the trees on the other side of the clearing. One man, Jack thought. Easy enough to rush him, if it's a trap. But why would Martingale --

Will. Will, the Warao who'd been their (honest) guide, who Jack'd last seen lashed to a fireside post at the very heart of the Chibcha village, emerged from the jungle and walked towards Martingale, unchained, unconstrained, smiling.

Martingale, presumably, had set him free. Martingale had freed him because ... Jack clapped a hand to his head, theatrickally, despite the fact that there was no one to see. _Jamie Martingale, will you **ever** stop listening to your prick?_

"You came," said Martingale breathlessly.

"I came," agreed Will, in that deep, languorous voice. His long black hair was as silkily straight as Jamie Martingale's, his eyes as black as Sparrow's. He was looking around, staring hard at the clump of trees behind which Jack was hiding: Jack thought to run, but there was the bright glimmer of metal at Will's side ( _Jamie, you idiot, you didn't need to **arm** him!_ ) and he didn't fancy his chances, even in the depthless half-light. He hunched lower, hand on his dagger-hilt, watching.

Will had apparently completed his surveillance. He stepped t'wards Martingale, who stood and waited: stood very straight -- Jack could see the tension in his back -- with lips parted, teeth gleaming, as the Indian stopped not a hand's breadth from him. Then Will's arm was around Martingale's waist, his mouth descending on Martingale's own -- not especially gently, and Martingale moaned into the kiss, head back to 'ccommodate it. Will was silent, until Martingale's hand slid down his spine and under the twist of cloth about his waist: then he growled, a noise that became more like laughter as his hand came up to Martingale's shoulder, pressing him down, bending to follow the kiss as Martingale dropped to his knees and turned his flushed face up t'wards Will's.

Jack was torn. It was plain (and would, Jack thought, have been plain even to a man who'd never encountered such Vices) what was about to occur: and Jack, despite the events of the last month or so (and even despite the events of the quarter-century before that) persisted in a code of conduct that could, on a dark night, be mistaken for Common Decency. In short, he had (or so he told himself) no wish to see the events shortly to be played out before him, and indeed a healthy disgust for said entertainment.

And yet, and yet: he'd only ever experienced this particular Vice at first ... well, not exactly _hand_. And besides, if he moved now he'd probably be caught.

Martingale's face, turned eagerly upward, was pretty and sensual in a way that was quite different from Jack Sparrow's: Will's expression, no longer as inscrutable, was intriguingly _other_ , and, oh _Christ_ was that metal gleaming on, _in_ , his prick?

Jack's own privities, formerly taking a polite interest in matters, cowered and wilted, and he clamped a hand protectively over 'em. Metal! He could, could _hear_ it 'gainst Martingale's back teeth -- Will was impressively endowed; perhaps there was a consequent loss of _sensation_ , which would make the insertion of that Ornament more bearable -- and could not scrub from his mind's eye the sight, all clear and instant, of the Warao's long, blood-dark member, gold gleaming (Jack could never mistake that buttery shine, even by moonlight) at its tip, and perhaps further up an' all. And Jamie Martingale's eyes stretching to see it -- as, ha ha, his _mouth'd_ stretched to take it in -- but not flinching, no, _wanting_.

And now that the metal was out of sight, somewhere deep in Martingale's wickedly accommodating throat (Jack didn't care to think of how much and how often he might've practiced this skill: bad enough that set-to with old Stone), the whole scene took on more of the _familiar_ , albeit with this strange new external perspective. Despite the fact that he'd spent so recently in Jack Sparrow's inhumanly hot, tight throat -- infinitely finer, by definition, than Martingale's for the sheer fact of having _Jack Sparrow_ 's mind motivating it -- Jack found himself swelling anew as Will held Martingale's head steady and plunged deep, again and again, not gentle but not needlessly rough: and Jamie Martingale took it, took it all, the busy muscles in his face set in stark relief by the strange light.

Jack would've thought that Will would go for hours: but very soon he was stiffening, hands fisted in Martingale's hair, his climax coming 'pon him soundlessly but with an expression of such bliss that it made Jack shiver. Oh, his prick ached, and he longed more than anything to be back in that bed with Jack Sparrow, alleviating the ache: and longed, too, for the moment when he might make his escape without notice.

Will exhaled, long and slow: he pulled Jamie Martingale to his feet, and kissed him: and his open eyes looked straight at Jack Shaftoe.


	34. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Four

  


The bed (ha! An optimistic piece of nomenclature, that one!) was scratchy, and so was Jack. He’d toss and turn, but to what avail; there was no comfort to be had here, not with all these twiggy extremities poking and prodding at him. And not with the cruel lack of Jack Shaftoe’s warm body beside him, sprawled and tangling. Not that he _needed_ that, to sleep sound, surely; but it was an undeniable comfort. Especially when one was attempting to sleep on something which had few pretensions to be anything more than a badly disassembled tree. Where had Shaftoe got to? It was damnably tempting to go in search of him. But he could be anywhere; and he might return at any moment; and devil take him! Why was he not back yet?

Something with more legs than was surely respectable slithered across Jack’s thigh, and he stifled a shriek, and sat up, flailing. The creature disappeared back into the bed; Jack huffed fractiously and rearranged blankets, deciding that they were more practically applied _beneath_ his corpus than above. He was in the midst of this boudoir reconstruction when there came a twig crack from outside; he stilled, all alert, and reached for his knife, and then relaxed as a deliciously familiar silhouette filled the doorway.

“Jack! Did you find him?”

“Aye,” said Shaftoe, and dragged Martingale in behind him. He didn’t sound impressed.

“What’s amiss?” Jack enquired, raising an eyebrow as Shaftoe shoved Jamie Martingale, a little more roughly than was probably necessary, t’wards his narrow pallet. Martingale sat down, scowling, and Shaftoe climbed noisily onto the bed beside Jack. Jack could feel damp warmth emanating from the man; phant’sied he could sense some deep thumping heartbeat coursing through him. But neither of them said anything: “Well?” Jack prompted.

“Are you going to tell him, or shall I?” demanded Shaftoe.

“You may as well,” said Martingale snarkily, “for I ‘spect it don’t matter much what I say, you’ve got the Captain’s… _ear_ , and you’ll make some great sport of it. P’rhaps I should sleep outside, leave you to demonstrate as you please?”

Shaftoe half stood, and his fists clenched. “Say that again, you dirty little—!”

“Oh, _I’m_ dirty, am I? I didn’t notice _me_ hiding in the bushes, all goggle-eyed!”

Jack had the presence of mind to put a hand out to Shaftoe’s chest before he launched himself at Martingale, and to oil the waters of this burgeoning disaster with some diplomacy. “Now, now, gentlemen, let’s all take a moment to gather ourselves, shall we? I take it Mr Shaftoe has, ah, interrupted you in some situation you’d rather not be interrupted in, Mr Martingale?”

“Not as such,” said Martingale with a sneer, “He could’ve interrupted, but he chose to keep himself all _hid_.”

Jack was perfectly fascinated to know the (obviously fantastically prurient) details of this, but told himself sternly that it would wait. “Mr Shaftoe,” he said, in the most Captainly tones he could muster considering he was naked and plastered against the man’s side, “does any of this have any bearing on the job in hand? Viz., getting what we came for and getting out of here again, collecting Mr Picken in one piece—yes, yes, I suppose Mr Spitaels also—and being on our way?”

Shaftoe gave Martingale a final glare and then decided to take the high ground (good choice, Jack thought; plenty of time for the low ground, ooh the very lowest of the low ground, later). “Mr Martingale’s got a favour to ask you,” he said, rather more calmly, “regarding the Indian, Will.”

Well, that was hardly a surprise. “Fancy a pet, do we?” said Jack.

“He ain’t—” Jamie Martingale began, all fierce, and then he bit his lip and took himself in hand. “Captain, I’m asking you if Will can come aboard with us. Join the Pearl. The Chibcha don’t mean him anything but harm, and he says he can’t go back to his people now, not now as he’s helped us, and gone against Robin; but he’s a good man, and strong, and he’d be an asset to you, Captain, I know it.”

“Ah, such philanthropy,” said Jack admiringly. “Without a single hidden agendum. In one so young. Don’t that bring a tear to your eye, Jack?”

Shaftoe snorted, and after a moment, Martingale had the grace to grin, even though it was a small and wry one.

“All right, Captain, it’s true, I… I like his company.” The boy flashed a sideways glance at Jack Shaftoe, who ignored it. “But you should know; I gave him a chance to ‘scape, to get away; and he chose to return, to let me tie him again, on the chance that you’d say yes. It’s what he wants; and I told him he could trust you.”

“I told him the same,” said Shaftoe, unexpectedly; whatever’d happened ‘twixt him and Martingale, he was obviously not going to let the Warao’s fate be decided by it. “I thought it best, Jack, better’n leaving him to some nasty end with the Chibcha; and better’n setting him loose to warn his Warao mates, if he’s not being straight. This way, he’s under our watch. I told him you were his best chance. That he should put his faith in you.”

Jack considered this. “But can I trust _him_ , gentlemen? What’d motivate a man to leave his people, leave his home, embarque upon some wild journey with men he don’t know?”

“Some things’d motivate him,” said Martingale, cheekily, and clearly fighting an urge to laugh.

“Are you going to enlighten me?” said Jack after a minute, but Shaftoe pinched him, and Martingale said, more soberly, “I’d’ruther not, Captain, ‘t’was only a jest.” Jack, quite certain that he’d get the details from Jack Shaftoe sooner rather than later, determined to let it be.

“We’ll discuss it in the morning, with the Chibcha,” he said eventually. “But I’d suggest we get some sleep, now, gentlemen; tomorrow’ll be a busy day, and a safe bed’s not to be sneezed at out here in the wild.”

“Aye, sir,” said Martingale, all relieved; he rolled himself up in a dirty blanket, his grubby feet protruding from its end, and was asleep in moments, snoring gently.

Jack pulled Shaftoe down, and twined close; Shaftoe’s arms, all warm and strong, were about him instantly, and he was sighing drowsily, rubbing his face against Jack’s, ready for sleep. Jack was faintly—pleasantly!—surprised that Jack Shaftoe’d comport himself thus, with another in the room; but he surely seemed to have no qualms about it.

“Sleep well,” Shaftoe mumbled, squeezing Jack’s waist absently, and taking a long deep breath.

Jack wriggled onto his side, till they were facing one another, noses all but touching, hair mixed and mingled under their cheeks, warm and pillowy. “Oh no you don’t,” he whispered. “Tell me! What’ve you been watching? What was the boy doing?”

Shaftoe didn’t open his eyes, but the moonlight was bright enough that Jack could see a twist at the corner of his lips. “Ooh, Jack,” he whispered back, “the things I’ve seen. Appalling, it was.”

“What? _What_?” demanded Jack in a low voice, slipping a coercive hand up into Shaftoe’s shirt and tweaking a nipple viciously. Shaftoe growled, and chuckled at Jack’s greed.

“That Will… well. Well I never, Captain Sparrow.”

Taunting, he was. Jack positioned his fingertips close to the other nipple, preparatory for a little torture. “Tell. Me.”

“You saw how he bears a gold ring, on his chest?”

“Mmmm. Aye, I saw. ‘T’would suit me, don’t you think?” murmured Jack, momentarily off on a happy tangential phant’sy.

Shaftoe’s shoulders were shaking with mirth again. “Or you could take it a step further. Will has; he’s decorated his _yard_.”

Jack’s knees drew up reflexively, and smacked into Shaftoe’s. “Never!”

“Saw it with my own two eyes. Swear it.”

“Well,” murmured Jack, after a moment’s reflection, “I would’ve stayed an’ watched that too.”

“Couldn’t see it much,” whispered Shaftoe, and he opened his eyes; they shone silvery, so close to Jack that he couldn’t focus properly. “It was too far down Jamie Martingale’s throat.”

Jack wriggled with horrified glee. “The little trollop! I knew it!”

“Think maybe we gave him ideas, when he walked in earlier?”

“Don’t think he needs much in the way of inspiration, that Jamie. Well. _Well_.”

“Mmmn.”

“Soooooo… you stayed to watch, eh, Jack?”

Shaftoe shifted, all discomfited. “What could I do? If I moved, they’d know I was there. I din’t _want_ to watch.”

“Why not?” whispered Jack, wickedly. “Some things are worth watching. Like you, f’rinstance. ‘Member how you… let me watch, that time? Wouldn’t let me touch you?”

“I think it was you as wouldn’t let me touch, actually,” growled Jack Shaftoe, his voice all warm, his grip tightening about Jack.

“Jamie, eh. Jamie and Will. No sooner laid eyes on the man than he had to have his cock in his mouth. Suppose I can… empathise with that. And what then? Did Jamie get his just desserts?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Will saw me,” whispered Shaftoe, grinning, and they both had to bite their lips to stifle their laughter.

“Oh, Mr Shaftoe, you wicked thing. No wonder young Jamie was so discombobulated. Don’t know why _you_ were so angry with him, though.”

“What? He frees a prisoner, gives him a _knife_!”

“A little foolish, I’ll grant you.”

“And then lets him… lets him…”

“’T’ain’t nothing you ain’t done yourself, Jack Shaftoe. And oh, remarkably well, I promise you.”

“Not to savages I only just met, thank you very much.”

“Don’t be such an old woman.”

“I’m not. I’m picky.”

“Are you?”

“Very. Very, very very. Is the interrogation over? Can I sleep, now?”

“I don’t know, can you? Can _I_ , with all that in my head?” wondered Jack, theatrically; but found that, after the day’s long march, and with Shaftoe’s sleepy breath warm on his face, and Shaftoe’s arm all heavy on him, sleep came near as easy as it did in his own cot, rocked by his own dear _Pearl_.

*

”Gentlemen?” came Enoch’s voice, stentorian, from outside the door. “Time to rise: may I enter?”

Tempting as it was—given the armful of warm Sparrow that Jack, on waking, found himself the lucky recipient of— to mutter, “No, and fuck off,” Jack restrained himself. Sparrow, who, being a seafaring fellow, was mightily accustomed to waking on demand and fully, spared him the bother of a reply by calling out, “By all means!” and gently disengaging himself from Jack’s deadweight embrace. By the time Jack opened his eyes, Enoch was sitting on the edge of Martingale’s pallet, as Jack Sparrow, perfectly unselfconscious, pulled on his breeches, and demanded the return of his shirt, which Jack, mysteriously, appeared to be wearing.

“Wear mine,” said Jack grumpily, waving a hand at the wretched piece of linen that Sparrow was even now trampling underfoot.

“Quite apart from its absolute filthiness, have you seen the _cut_ of your shirt? I wouldn’t be caught dead in it, not even in the jungles of Guyana,” said Sparrow. “Give.”

Jack cursed and said several disparaging things about Sparrow’s vanity, sartorial taste, progenitors, and general mental health; but he sat up, and peeled off the shirt, and (bare, and running his fingers through his hair in lieu of any proper toilette) was rewarded with a lascivious wink from Jack Sparrow.

“If you’re quite ready?” said Enoch patiently as they finished dressing, and pulled on their boots.

“Ready for what?” said Sparrow, stretching up as high as he could without burying his finger-spread hands in the hut’s rustly thatch. “First things first: how’s Bill? In fact, let’s go and visit him,” and he was out into the sunlight, the rest of them following at varying rates of speed and enthusiasm.

“You’ll have to be fast,” Enoch remonstrated. “There’s a gentleman waiting on you, and he’s not one to be kept waiting.”

“Priorities, Mr Root,” cried Sparrow over his shoulder, as he strode on to Bill’s hut, and stuck his head inside, hallooing. There came a shriek from the interior, and the tiny old woman pushed him back outside with surprising force for one so wizened and nutlike.

“I’m only after a moment, Madam!” said Sparrow, and he gave her his most ingratiating smile, steepling his hands before him. “If you please. What with him being my co-captain and all. Just to see that he’s all right, eh? Please?”

Jack did not think that the desperation in Sparrow’s eyes was readable to all. But it was clear as spring water to Jack. “Come on, Enoch,” he said. “Get her to let us in, will you?”

Enoch spoke a few words of the old woman’s own tongue, and gestured expansively; she gabbled back at him, and he nodded sagely, and argued in return; and after a few minutes thus spent, Jack deduced from the timbre of the exchange that Enoch was winning, and turned to look at Sparrow, to give him an encouraging smile. But he was gone; had apparently slipped inside the moment the woman’s attention was taken by Root. Jack grinned, and followed his example.

It was dim inside. Bill Turner lay on a bushy pile of leaves, much like the bed they’d just spent such an uncomfortable night on; his pale face and torso were painted with mud in savage patterns, and there was a thick pancake of something dark and pungent on his neck, where the dart had pierced him. But he was awake; he was talking to Sparrow, who crouched beside him, holding Bill Turner’s hand between both his own. Jack stifled a mindless stab of jealousy, and hung back in the shadows.

“Tell me how you are? Can you move?” Sparrow was asking.

“Aye, Jack, aye—see?”

“Thank Christ. You gave us a hellish fright, you bloody idiot,” said Sparrow, for all the world as though Turner’d spat the dart at himself.

“Gill?” said Turner, and Sparrow looked down, shook his head.

There was a small silence, and then Bill Turner said, “I know what you did for me, Jack. I know you chose to save me, and wouldn’t go to him.”

“He was done for,” said Sparrow with a shrug, as though he made that type of choice on a regular basis; and then, in a burst of honesty, “But even if he weren’t, Bill, I’d’ve chosen you, if I could only save one.”

“Jack… listen, Jack—and you too, Shaftoe,” said Bill, motioning Jack forward with a tilt of his head. “I’m sorry for what’s happened, the last few days. I’m sorry I ever disobeyed your order, Jack. I swear I never meant for… for you to lose your captaincy. Never.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” said Sparrow. “Still captain, ain’t I? And it was a bloody stupid order, or so I’m told by those in the know.” He grinned up at Jack, all sharp, reminding Jack of their roaring at one another in Sparrow’s cabin; of punches thrown, of desperate wrestling; of anger transmuting into vicious kisses.

“Aye,” Jack agreed, managing to find his voice before it was lost altogether. “Bloody stupid.”

Bill nodded, and smiled, and seemed to relax a little; then he jumped, they all did, as the tiny woman darted back into the hut, berating them loudly, and smacking at Jack with a small leafy branch.

“Looks like visiting time’s over—ouch, please, ma’am, I don’t think I deserved that!” cried Sparrow, jumping to his feet.

“I’ll be fine. Go and find yourself a cure,” said Bill Turner, laughing, as Jack plunged back out into the sunlight, Sparrow stumbling behind him, out of the reach of that minuscule harridan.

“If you’d just _waited_ ,” began Enoch, but Sparrow was off again.

“Next job; that Warao. I want to keep him. Who do I need t’inform?”

“It will have to _wait_ , Jack Sparrow,” said Enoch firmly. “You’re expected elsewhere, yourself and Mr Shaftoe. Perhaps young James can keep an eye on your Indian for the day, eh?”

“If you say so, Mr Root,” said Martingale, and bounded off before anyone could countermand this suggestion.

“And who are we expected by?” enquired Jack. “I fear I’m not dressed with any degree of finesse, this morning.”

Sparrow sighed, and looked him up and down. “A state, you are. Look like you slept in a _bush_. Don’t know why I put up with it.”

“You are expected,” said Enoch over the top of this badinage, “by a very wise man. You might call him a physician; you might call him a witch-doctor, depending, I suppose, on your philosophickal position on these matters. In any case, gentlemen: he will be your judge, and your jury. And, unless you can generate some modicum of beneficence in him; why, then he will turn you away, and be your de-facto _executioner_ ; so I _suggest_ ,” he continued, with one of the fiercer looks he had ever bestowed upon Jack, “that you treat this gentleman and his requests with the gravity they deserve.” He turned on his heel, his mud-rimmed black cloak swirling, and set off.

Jack looked at Sparrow, chastened, and not a little apprehensive. He put a reassuring hand on Sparrow’s shoulder; felt the pirate lean into his touch, just a little. “It’ll be fine,” he said, trying for certainty.

“Aye,” said Sparrow, with a rather wild-eyed confidence. “Come, Jack Shaftoe; let’s go and be Cured.”


	35. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Five

  
  
Oh, the morning was bright, and to see Bill awake and talking, more himself than ever (and gratifyingly apologetic for past misbehaviour, to boot) was brighter: but still, Jack Sparrow could not help but admit to a sneaking sense of imminent doom as he followed Enoch Root through the mizzly jungle, Jack Shaftoe at his heels. "Let's go and be cured," he'd said blithely, and Shaftoe had grinned at him, increasing the refulgence of the morning yet further. Yet surely Shaftoe, too, remembered Enoch's solemn words regarding Sin, and Tests, and Worthiness?

Not that Jack felt in any wise unworthy of a cure. Hadn't his undoubted suffering at the hands of Pieter Spitaels ('twas already a blurry haze of fever and purging to Jack, but there'd been witnesses) entitled him to the swiftest and least painful Cure available? Hadn't he done his best by his crewmen -- well, most of 'em: Gill was the exception to prove the rule -- when attacked by the enemy? Wouldn't he speak up for the Chibcha when he next saw Johannes Koeppel? And, oh, most persuasive reason of all, was not Mr Jack Shaftoe, late of London Town, striding along just behind him, eyes no doubt fixed on Jack's arse (he could _feel_ that stare), grinning and smirking and generally brimming with vitality and vigour and sheer _joie de vivre_? Jack Shaftoe was the best argument for immortality that Jack had ever found: one lifetime, surely, would not be enough.

And of course if Jack was given the Cure, then Shaftoe would have it too. Went without saying, did it not?

"Enoch," he said, "what's the _nature_ of this, this Test?"

"How should I know?" retorted Enoch Root, not pausing or turning. "Do I look to you like a man who's suffered the Pox, and its cure?"

"Well, you never --"

Enoch sighed heavily. "No, Captain Sparrow: I don't know. But you'll discover it soon enough: we're here."

The trio had emerged into another clearing, this one unsullied by the lunatick basketwork of Chibcha architecture. Instead, Jack could see an impenetrable curtain of green vines and creepers, stretching high above them like a wall: and at the foot of it, a dark narrow aperture, the height of a man, from which billowed pungent, yellowish smoke.

"In _there_?" he said.

"In there," said Enoch. "And try ..." He looked at Jack, and then at Shaftoe, and spread his hands. "This is an honour," he said: and turned, and held aside the living green veil, and gestured for the two of them to proceed.

Inside, 'twas cool, and the heavy bitter smoke vied with the odour of rotting vegetation. Jack, straightening up cautiously, realised that they were not in any sort of building, but in a _cave_ : the walls about him glinted moistly, reflecting the five lamps set in a circle at the chamber's centre. In the middle of it all was a clay pot, the height of Jack's knee, gouting like an unswept chimney.

There was a figure on the other side of the circle, sitting on a carved wooden chair, bundled in a mangy coat that was all stitched with dyed feathers. His face -- from what Jack could see of it, through the smoke -- was dark and crumpled, as though he'd been left here to tan: but his eyes reflected the light like black glass. Jack could feel his attention, a different burn altogether to the warm blue fire of Shaftoe's gaze. He was glad to have Jack Shaftoe there at his back, shuffling his feet: drawing breath to say something.

Enoch Root had followed them in: no doubt he'd noticed Shaftoe's mouth opening to speak, for he said something, hastily, in a language -- not the Chibcha's common tongue -- that Jack did not know. Then, in English, "Kneel."

Cure, Jack reminded himself, and knelt on the straw matting that covered the floor. He flicked a glance at Jack Shaftoe, but Shaftoe's eyes were on the, the _witch-doctor_. The Guardian of the Cure, thought Jack, and wanted to giggle. Enoch, settling himself on a low stool to the left of the old man, frowned. The smoke billowed higher.

The witch-doctor cleared his throat, noisily, and fired a staccato question at Enoch, who translated: "He asks why you have sought him from afar."

"Why, we're in search of that _remedy_ you promised us," said Jack, rolling his eyes.

"For the Great Pox," supplied Shaftoe, helpfully.

The old man spoke. "He says you are suffering because you have sinned," translated Enoch.

"Is the learned gentleman aware of the nature of this disease?" enquired Jack. "Of how it's _transmitted_?"

"Less flippancy, if you please," said Enoch sharply. "Unless you'd rather return to the naive and discredited treatments of Pieter Spitaels?"

"No, thanks very much," said Shaftoe, nudging Jack hard in the ribs. "'Tis true, I am a sinner," he went on, dipping his head in a credible show of repentance. In the dim light, his expression was serene.

Jack was impressed. Enoch spoke swiftly to the old man, who looked at Shaftoe and gave a nod; then turned, frowning again, to Jack.

"Me too," said Jack hastily. "Very much so. And most earnestly desirous of mercy, that I might lead a better life hereafter."

"I'm overjoyed to hear it," said Enoch dryly.

The old man asked another question. This one turned out to be, as Jack had more or less predicted, "And if the gods bless you with a cure, will you sin no more?"

Jack, thinking furiously of those Books of Philosophy he'd sold for a pittance back in New England, drew breath to argue: but Shaftoe was quicker (and, Jack had to admit, better at this). He said equably, "There's much that men reckon sin, though it's no harm to anyone. Why, I myself have only lately learned ..." His voice trailed off, and he turned his head and smiled at Jack: a broad, sweet smile that made Jack forget what he was about to say, and think instead of the _sins_ that he'd taught to Jack Shaftoe, and learned from him.

"What I mean," said Jack Shaftoe more confidently, looking from Enoch to the old man, "is this: I sh'll do no wilful, spiteful harm to others, but I'll not give up all those mad glorious delights that ignorant men call sin: for without pleasure and joy, there's no sense in living."

"Well said," Enoch murmured, as the old man began to speak again. His cracked voice rose and fell, as meaningless and soothing as the sound of waves. Jack found his eyes closing.

Then Enoch said loudly, "Mr Shaftoe, go outside."

"What, that's it? Let me --"

"Jack," said Enoch, leaning forward. Was that a faint smile lurking in his beard? "Go. I'll come for you in a while."

Shaftoe shot a panicked look at Jack. "I'll ..." he began: then clamped his mouth shut on whatever he'd been about to say. He rose to his feet and set his hand on Jack's shoulder, squeezing, for a moment: then pushed aside the rustling vines and was gone into the cold hard light.

* * *

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was raining, for a change: but Jack did not care. He lingered at the entrance to the cavern, straining to hear what Jack Sparrow might say now that Jack wasn't there to hear it. He could make out nothing, save a low susurrus that might've been the breeze, or the rain, against the vines.

"Further away, if you please, Mr Shaftoe!" called Enoch from within. Jack scowled, and retreated to a flat stone about ten feet off, from where he could keep an eye on the cave while turning over everything he'd said, and wondering which part of it he'd got wrong.

The old man had nodded, hadn't he? So the bit about being a sinner (oh, so very much more true than ever before: the thought of his most recent sins sent a comforting warmth through Jack's veins) had been all right. Must've been the rest of it: the way he'd looked the old man in the eyes, defiantly -- peculiar eyes, they were, like polished stones -- and more or less said that he had a great deal more sinning to do, and that he intended to do it with Jack Sparrow.

Worse than anything was the thought that he'd ruined Sparrow's chance for a Cure, as well as his own. Oh, Sparrow was still in there; _his_ responses hadn't been so very meek and mild, come to think of it. But Sparrow needed it more -- he'd been so bloody ill, even before Spitaels' nasty remedies -- and Jack could not bear to think that he, Jack Shaftoe, had robbed shining Jack Sparrow of bright years of life.

Jack was not often given to prayer, but he prayed now to whatever old gods and demons might reside in this soggy locus: Let that old man have mercy. Let him give Jack Sparrow the cure.

"Jack?" came Enoch's voice, from close by: and Jack, looking up, saw him standing at the entrance to the cave, with Jack Sparrow -- all wild-eyed and pale, empty-handed -- at his side.

"Aye?" said Jack, his attention all on Sparrow.

"Come back inside, Jack Shaftoe," said Enoch. Was that sympathy in his voice? If so, Jack did not care for it. He stood up, still looking at Sparrow: but Sparrow's expression was blank and empty. Jack wanted to get hold of him, to, to shake him, to shout at him until he shouted back.

"Come on," said Enoch. Jack scowled. He strode past Enoch and shoved through the vines, not bothering to part them with his hands. What had that old fraud _done_ to --

"Jack Shaftoe," said the magician, in a voice like dead leaves.

Jack's rage deflated in a heartbeat: and from somewhere at the back of his neck came a small familiar voice. _Downdown, JackmyJack! Kneel to 'im or never get free at all!_

Jack could've sworn that the old man's pebbly eyes were no longer watching him, but something else that moved from where he stood, edging 'round the circle of lamps. He knelt, and waited for Enoch to resume his place at the side of the throne. The feathers on the magician's cape rustled as though something had scuttled over them. Jack blinked, and coughed as the yellow smoke billowed up from the urn.

Again, the old man asked his questions, and Enoch translated in that level, emotionless voice of his.

"Have you a wife?"

"No." (And surely Jack Sparrow would have made the same reply.)

"Children?"

"Aye, two sons in England." ( _Did_ Sparrow have children? Many men did. Easily done, thought Jack, smirking: though Sparrow's preferences of late might indicate ...)

"Have you sinned?"

"I have," said Jack, throat tight and scorched with fumes.

"Give me your sins."

Christ, if they'd asked Jack Sparrow _that_ , Jack himself would still be outside, and settling in for a lengthy wait. Surprising, really, that the old man had the stamina to listen to any more.

But Enoch was frowning at him through the smoke, nodding urgently as if to say, Hurry up and tell him.

"Well," began Jack, "I stole food for me an' my brother, back in Wapping: an' I reckon I must've done that a hundred times or more. An' I lied to my old mother, and kept money back from her. And, and ..." He cast about, trying to think of specific instances of wrong-doing. There were so very many, and they all seemed small and clear and far away, like grains of sand on the sea-bed far below. "And I took our Lord's name in vain -- from time to time, you understand, not as a regular occurrence: and I lay with a painted woman, and did some other things with her too, ha ha: and there was the incident with the Bishop of Lambeth ..."

Were they listening? The old man hadn't moved for ages: perhaps Jack's litany was so tedious as to have lulled him to sleep. Enoch ... now, why did _Enoch_ have to be there, muttering the occasional word -- summarising, thought Jack, taking out the good bits -- to the old man, as impassive as though Jack were reciting his catechism?

"And I slew an entire army of Turks," Jack improvised, "and stole their jewels and their swords and, and their hunting-cats and horses and hareem slaves." He paused for breath, congratulating himself on his alliteration. "And I pretended to knowledge of Alchemy that I did not have, and, oh, the time I impersonated the King of France, what about that? And I --"

The old man stirred at last, and said something in that gravelly argot. Enoch smirked, and relayed, "He accepts that you are a sinner."

Jack, deprived of further opportunity to catalogue his life, sat back on his heels, sulking.

"And he says," Enoch went on, "that there is only medicine enough for one man to be cured. Should it be you? Or should Captain Sparrow have it?"

A quarter of a century's worth of self-preservation leapt ready in Jack's heart, but a mosaic of bright images rose there too: Jack Sparrow twisting and leaping on the yard-arm, Jack Sparrow fiercely exultant on the storm-lashed deck, Jack Sparrow fiery and passionate and demanding in their bed.

"Give it to Jack," said Jack Shaftoe, clear and certain. "Never was there anyone like Jack Sparrow, anyone that so deserved life. Eh, Enoch?"

Enoch said nothing.

"Give it to Jack Sparrow," Jack repeated. "And, and give me something that looks the same, so he won't know I ..." _Oh God, I've doomed myself for him_ : and, on the heels of that thought, _but oh, he's worth it_. "So he won't know what, what I said," he finished, more or less at random.

The old man said something that made Enoch laugh. _Laugh._ Jack wanted to leap up and throttle the pair of them, for mocking him so: but the smoke was making him sleepy, and besides, there was Jack Sparrow's Cure to consider.

Then Enoch was beside him, hunkering down: taking Jack's right hand (which did not seem to have much will of its own any more) and pressing into it a small parcel of leaves.

"'Tis the true Remedy, Jack," he was saying. "And this is what you must do." And he paused to listen to the magician, and then spoke; paused, and spoke.

Jack tried to pay attention, for this was life or death: but oh, Jack Sparrow was there too, close enough for Jack to reach out and touch with his left hand -- he tested this hypothesis, and was overjoyed to find it true -- and warm, and live, and saved. And together, what could they not do?

Jack hardly flinched when Enoch's voice, instructing them, faltered.


	36. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Six

  


“I think it perhaps best,” said Enoch, after a moment’s silence, “if you two wait outside; I need to clarify a few points with this gentleman.”

“Eh?” said Jack Shaftoe, who seemed a little dazed yet. Perhaps from his good fortune; Jack had seen Enoch press a small parcel into Shaftoe’s palm, so Shaftoe must’ve just learned of his endless, sun-bright future. Just as Jack himself had learned—no, not a just term, for it implied some lack of active volition on Jack’s part—had, willingly, martyred himself for Jack Shaftoe’s sake. Not that Shaftoe would know that; not if the old man and Enoch had been true to their word.

_Get over it,_ Jack told himself fiercely. _Your life ain’t any different to what it was before; ‘tis Jack Shaftoe’s world that’s changed._ “Come, Jack,” he said, and pulled his friend to his feet. “Let’s do as Enoch asks.”

It was good to be outside, out of that smoky reek, away from that flint-eyed little witch-doctor, out of that cave that seemed populated by a hundred invisible flitty nothings, darting precociously round the edges of his vision. Much better to be out here, in the cool daylight, with Jack Shaftoe at his side, blinking in the brightness.

“Here,” said Jack, and towed Shaftoe, still not quite himself, over to the flat-topped stone he’d been perched on, waiting. They sat, and Jack made himself grin; shook Shaftoe’s shoulders and cried, “Come on, mate, some cheer! We did it! That’s our cure you’ve got there!”

_Well, it’s your cure; it’s my…_

“Yes,” said Shaftoe, and shook his head like a dog, heaving a deep breath as if to clear his lungs and head of all that’d passed inside. “Yes; we did it, Jack, we’ll be well, now, you an’ me. You an’ me.”

“Wonderful, ain’t it!” Jack managed, but he was having trouble keeping up this cheery façade. He pulled Shaftoe to him, buried his face in Shaftoe’s hair, where he could frown and wince all he wanted, all safe and secret.

The worst thing was, of course, that once they’d taken the cure—once Jack Shaftoe was pox-free and clean and sweet—why, then, Jack would have to… Oh, crap, oh blast and damnation and holy holy _fuck_ ; then, Jack would have to give him up. Give him up, or contaminate him all anew. Would have to send Shaftoe from him; pretend that he was (oh, it was such a bloody _ridiculous_ thought, how would he ever manage to feign it?) tired of Shaftoe’s presence in his bed, aboard his ship. Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Jack felt damned. Cursed. It was a hell of a price. His own life, and his time with Jack Shaftoe; all given up. All because he’d not been repentant enough, not abased himself as he should; all because he’d said, honest for once and clearly idiot with it, that he’d never be able to give up the wonderful sin of Jack Shaftoe’s touch.

So did that mean that Shaftoe _had_ said he’d give it up? To be given the cure?

Oh, there was a thought like a viper’s bite; and even Jack Shaftoe’s hot hands on his back, even Jack Shaftoe’s strong embrace and the hard thump of Shaftoe’s pulse against Jack’s neck, didn’t quite dispel it. A hell of a price, indeed.

_And I’d pay it again, see if I wouldn’t._

Jack set his jaw, and pulled away from Shaftoe’s arms. “Let’s see this cure, then,” he said, aiming for businesslike, and coming out querulous.

Shaftoe unwrapped the leaf; inside were two smaller parcels, of the same leaf, each bound about with a rough twine. “Which is… mine?” said Jack, after a moment. Shaftoe was staring at them, same as he was.

“I don’t know,” said Shaftoe, frowning a little “How will we tell?”

And it struck Jack that Shaftoe seemed to _care_ which was which.

And… wait a second… (Jack’s brain, tired of a morning’s helically convoluted over-analysis, was maddeningly sluggish, but surely there was an implication here) …

… if Jack Shaftoe cared which was which, as much as Jack did, then that meant that that wicked little old man had played them one against the other, and offered them both the same Solomon’s choice!

In which case, two options remained.

One: that Jack Shaftoe had chosen to save himself, and there really was only one true cure there, and that was why Shaftoe cared which was which.

Two: that Jack Shaftoe’d said the same as Jack Sparrow. And there were two Remedies in his hand. Each man’s salvation gifted by the other’s selflessness.

Shaftoe looked up, and the cogs turning in his head were near visible to Jack. Jack lifted an eyebrow, and Shaftoe started to grin, and they knew, knew without saying another word, what’d happened.

“That was the fucking test,” said Shaftoe, his smile breaking out all wide and white. “That was it, Jack: you said the same thing, din’t you? That I could have the cure, an’ I said it should be yours. And that’s what proved us worthy; he din’t give a flying fuck about all those sins we s’posedly committed, did he?”

Jack’s heart was leaping, bounding. Two cures! Two! He grabbed Shaftoe’s thigh, squeezing hard and happy, and laughed: “I don’t suspect he did, Mr Shaftoe. Though mine were highly entertaining if I may say so.”

“I’m sure you were most _creative_ ,” said Shaftoe, wriggling on the stone and re-wrapping that precious bundle. “I know I was.”

“So,” said Jack, all impatient now there was no downside to Restored Health, “Can we take it now, d’you suppose? What was Enoch saying, about stewing and pasting and all?”

“Fucked if I know, I wasn’t listening to a word. I’d just offered to die for you, and been taken up on it. I was a little distracted.”

“And… regretful?”

“Not for a moment,” said Jack Shaftoe, blue eyes blazing, all fierce sincerity for once in a way that warmed Jack inside and out. “Not one.”

“Nor I,” Jack said back; and it hung there, a confession of _something_ , though he doubted either one of them would be able, or possibly willing, to name it. “And I’d do it again, Jack. I’d do it in a fucking heartbeat, so help me.”

It was the slowest approach to a kiss there’d ever been, between the two of them. Jack paused, there, a fraction of an inch from Shaftoe’s mouth, eyes closed, savouring the close warmth of skin, the sweet huff of breath, the sheer deliciousness of the moment—

“Ahem!” said Enoch Root.

Jack, frankly, would’ve ignored this irruption, but Shaftoe was not so Socially Blasé, and made a startled noise, turning to Enoch and smacking Jack’s nose with his own. Jack _ow_ ’d and scowled at the approaching Alchemist.

“Enoch! So, when can we take the cure?” demanded Shaftoe, possibly to cover the flush on his face.

“Later, I think,” said Enoch, and beckoned them to follow him back into the trees.

“Why not now? Soon?” Root was walking fast.

“The… method of administering it is complex. I suggest that, unless you want to spend quite some time with the Chibcha, we should return to the _Black Pearl_ before attempting it.”

This sounded ominous. “Why?” Jack put in, taking a few running steps to keep up. “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing,” said Enoch firmly. “I believe it will work. But… it’s not as simple as one might hope.”

“What does it involve?” Jack persisted. Honestly, conversations with that man were like pulling healthy teeth, some days.

“We’ll talk of it later.” And he’d not be drawn on the matter, despite Jack’s very best efforts.

*

Lord, Jack Sparrow knew how to pester! They were no more than halfway back to the village before Jack decided that, were he Enoch Root, he’d either have caved, or found some other form of shutting Sparrow up. Possibly—hmm, _probably_ —involving physical restraint.

Easy enough, though (he smirked happily to himself) for _Jack Shaftoe_ to think of ways to interrupt Jack Sparrow’s logorrhoea. Sparky with success, shivery with victory, Jack fondled the leafy package in his pocket and let his mind wander over the ways in which he’d occupy Sparrow’s mouth, just as soon as he got the chance. That missed kiss, back in the clearing, was still hovering all around him; Christ, he yearned to celebrate this properly, to show Jack Sparrow just how wonderful this was going to be, with both of ‘em well and whole and the entire world in front of ‘em!

At the village, as they emerged from the jungle, Sparrow stopped, and suddenly came over all practical.

“All right, then; you’re perfectly correct, Mr Root, we should look to return as soon as can be. Not least because I don’t like having left Mr Picken all to his own devices with those idiot Dutchmen, and the Warao. Can I presume, then, that you’ll be returning with us?”

“It is a little earlier than I’d hoped to leave,” Enoch conceded, “but I believe that would be the best course of action.”

“Right. So. Mr Root, you go and find John Burton, and prepare him for departure. Say your goodbyes, and all that. Mr Shaftoe, would you be so kind as to see if you can smuggle Bootstrap out of the loving arms of that overfond nursemaid of his? And I’ll go and sort out Mr Martingale and his… friend. Who should I talk to, ‘bout taking the Indian with us, Enoch?”

“Djagdao will probably help, will speak to the headman on your behalf. And since he’s… a friend of John’s, why don’t you come with me, and we can kill two birds with one stone? Time is of the essence, if you wish to leave today.”

“I do indeed,” said Sparrow, and he shot a flamey oblique look t’ward Jack. “Keen to get back to my own bed, I am.” Something delicious skittered down Jack’s spine, and he grinned, and doffed an imaginary hat in obeisance. “I sh’ll collect Mr Turner forthwith, Captain,” he said, and headed off.

“Hello,” he said, with a degree of caution, at the door of the hut, risking a quick peek in. There was no sign of the old woman, and Turner stirred, apparently from a deep sleep. Jack went in, and hunkered down beside the bed.

“Bill? Mate? How’re you feeling?”

Turner opened his eyes, and grunted; rubbed an hand over his face and through his hair. “Better. What are you doing here, Jack? What happened, with the, the cure?”

Jack produced the package with a flourish and a wide grin. “’Nough for two, in here; him an’ me, we’re going to be just fine, apparently.” He knew that the relief that washed over Bill Turner’s face was not for his own commuted sentence; still, it was nice to see.

“That’s grand,” said Bill, smiling all wide. He should smile more, Jack thought. He doesn’t look like such a humourless bugger, like that.

“It is indeed. And, Bill? Don’t think I don’t know that it’s thanks to you that I’m holding this. You’ve saved him; and me, too, though, haha, that mayn’t have been your intention.”

“Ah well,” said Bill sagely, “No good deed goes unpunished, eh?”

This witticism, barbed though it might appear, was delivered with such deadpan good humour that Jack could not take it amiss; could not resist laughing at it, and thinking that it was possible, just possible, that there might, one of these days, be a common ground of true friendship between the two of them.

“Thing is,” Jack went on, “Jack wants to get back to Picken and bloody Spitaels; back to the ship, soon’s ever we can. Are you well enough? Can you get up? Walk?” He did not like to add, _And maybe fight_ ; he was not at all sure of what might be waiting for them at the little settlement at the rivermouth. But the set of Bill’s jaw said that he knew it anyway.

“Aye; I think so. Just let me…” he said, and, groaning, pushed himself upright. That paste on his neck’d been scraped away, and there was just a scrap of linen tied about it now; Jack thought he recognised it as the part of Gill’s shirt that Martingale’d appropriated.

Bill swung his legs off the bed, and stood, swaying a little and going a trifle pale. Jack put an arm around his shoulders. “There, mate, there; lean on me, an you need it; are you right?”

“Yes, yes," said Bill, all testy. "Lord, don’t start on me, Jack, I’ve put up with enough fussing from that old crone.”

“She’s going to be mighty riled when she finds out her patient’s escaped, eh?”

“I’d say so. Give me my boots, will you Jack? And my sword’s there—thank’ee—now let’s begone, ‘fore she reappears!”

“Are you _sure_ you’re fit to go? Don’t need a bit more of a lie down?” said Jack, needlingly, not quite able to let go of his urge to taunt Bill Turner (and possibly encouraged by the newborn rapport between them). Bill glared at him, and Jack laughed.

“Come on then, Captain Turner—no, lean on me, if you please—and let us venture once more into the wilds.”


	37. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Seven

  
  
It had been Enoch himself who'd suggested that they leave the Chibcha village and strike out back to the rivermouth where the _Black Pearl_ waited: and so he could not really complain of the haste of the party's departure, the wealth of knowledge left untapped, the vanishingly small possibility of there being further opportunities to speak with the tribe's shaman, one wise man to another. But, like a man who mislays a book half-read, Enoch was conscious of a sense of inconclusion, of white spaces in the mental maps he'd constructed. The Chibcha's knowledge of these forests, these rivers, the plants and animals and the land itself, was without peer in Enoch's experience, and their physicians more _effective_ , whether they treated diseases of the body or of the soul, than any of the learned men whom Enoch Root had encountered back in Christendom.

In the long run -- and Enoch was accustomed to thinking of the long run -- the curtailment of his stay was of no import. Jack Sparrow was keen to be gone, and it seemed to Enoch that this infamous Cure would be better attempted in the safe and familiar environs of the _Pearl_ 's cabins, rather than the soggy raffia shells of the Chibcha village. And besides, the gentlemen submitting to the Cure would very probably be miserable patients: the Chibcha would have no time for their complaints. Enoch smiled into his beard at the prospect of explaining the methodology of this particular -- oh, _very_ particular -- remedy.

The path was widening: Enoch did not recall this part of the route, but perhaps they were nearing the Dutch settlement. He glanced up at the sky, but it was the same lowering murk that had prevailed throughout his time here.

"I'll be glad to leave this bloody place behind me," complained Jack Shaftoe, jogging up to fall into place beside Enoch. "Get back on the _Pearl_ , get cured, and carry on where we left off."

"Where's that?" said Enoch. He cast an appraising eye over his once and future patient. Shaftoe looked as healthy and strong as Enoch'd ever seen him: there was a rude animal vigour about him these days, no doubt effected by the presence of Jack Sparrow, and whatever accord the two of them had reached.

"Why, Enoch, surely _you_ ain't forgotten ..." Shaftoe turned to look behind them, at where Bill Turner -- somewhat shambling and grey of complexion, but a walking, breathing testament to the efficacy of Chibcha medicine -- followed, deep in murmured conversation with Jack Sparrow. "... the _Reef_ ," finished Shaftoe, grinning.

"Indeed I have not," Enoch assured him. "Nor, Jack, have I forgotten what befell you _last_ time you ventured there."

"Last ...? Ah, but Don Esteban's dead and gone," said Shaftoe cheerfully.

"I meant the _creature_ , the one that seized Captain Sparrow, and --"

"Can't blame it," interpolated Shaftoe, grinning.

Enoch raised his eyebrows. "You've changed your tune, Jack, from all the elaborate excuses you concocted, before."

Shaftoe flushed a little, but he held Enoch's gaze. "Some things, I've found of late, ain't worth hiding," he averred. "Nor running from."

"I wish you happy," said Enoch mildly, looking askance at Jack Shaftoe to see how this sentiment (more usually heard at weddings and hand-fastings) would be taken.

Shaftoe laughed, and turned his head to look back at Jack Sparrow: Enoch turned too, and Sparrow was staring at Shaftoe, a look so heated and hungry that it roused unaccustomed emotions (not least a kind of embarrassment) in Enoch's breast. He looked away, in time to see a flicker of movement in the forest, off to one side of the path.

"Jack," he said. "There, over there: is that ...?"

In an instant Jack Shaftoe was soldierly again: sword ringing from its scabbard, snapping a warning over his shoulder, running ahead to catch up with the Warao, Will, and young Martingale, the point-men of the group.

Enoch had a good sword at his side, but he did not draw it. Instead, not breaking stride, he pulled from his pocket (though did not, yet, raise to his mouth) a small pipe of bone, all carved and stained.

"Who are they?" demanded Jack Sparrow, pistol in hand. "The Warao again?" He glared at Will's naked, rain-wet back. "Or --"

"I believe," said Enoch calmly, peering into the dense tangle of wet green, "there's but one man, an Englishman. And, from the look of him, a pirate."

* * *

Near enough, damn it, to see smoke rising from the Dutchmen's house, roiling into mist: yet Jack, who craved dry clothes and warmth and, oooh, Jack Shaftoe's sure touch, was thankful to be crouched here in this squelching culvert, huddled with the rest of 'em to listen to Mick Picken and his hasty -- yet professional -- summary of events since Jack Sparrow and his party had left the settlement.

"Soon as you'd gone, a whole horde of them Indians come in, and talked with the Dutch geezer, and went out again. An' then that Spitaels," Picken spat, appositely, "he was tellin' how cruel you'd treated him, an' when I spoke up and said what he'd done to be served so -- why, 'e gave me the lie, and bade old Koeppel lock me away!"

"How'd you stop 'im?" enquired Shaftoe, next to Jack.

"Din't," said Picken, with a black-toothed grin. "Since they hadn't cut me down instant, I reckoned they were up to something: an' I heard them shouting and complaining, when the Indians come back."

"So, 'twas _Koeppel_ who set them on us, eh?" said Jack. "I had wondered." Inside him a black fury boiled; but he quelled it, at least 'til Picken's tale was done. "Carry on, Mr Picken," he said.

"There was all that fuss yestere'en, an' that young Dutch bloke come and asked me your business, and what cargo the _Pearl_ carried."

"You didn't tell --"

"No, Mr Turner, I did not. Thought they'd do me in right then, I did: but they left me alone for the night. Not a scrap of food, neither," he added, looking hopefully around the knot of men. Djagdao produced a thin, greasy twist of flatbread, and Picken chewed on it gamely, teeth creaking.

"So when'd they let you free, mate?" said Shaftoe. "An' why?"

"They din't, Mr Shaftoe," said Picken crossly, discarding the bread. "But their locks ain't any better than a child's knot: an' I slipped away this morning, once it started to get light. Or as light as it ever gets, in this bedizened place."

"I don't suppose you happened to overhear any of their conversations?" said Jack. He felt a little light-headed, having eaten nothing but blackened flatbread and a chunk of nameless, somewhat rotten fruit: perfect excuse, though, to steady himself on Shaftoe's shoulder, and to leave his hand there in case of further equilibrial necessities.

Picken shook his head. "But I _did_ see, Captain," and, visibly recollecting recent changes in the command structure, he nodded to Bill Turner too, "while I was lookin' round earlier, that they took the cutter from the beach, where we'd tied up, and had a pair of Indians paddle it upstream."

This was grim news indeed. Jack ground his teeth. The rest of 'em were looking at him (not at Bill Turner, poor bloke, who seemed to be having enough trouble keeping awake: no doubt there was more'n a drop of poison in him still) for a solution to their predicament: and now, more than ever, he could not let them down. 'Twas only his plight, and Shaftoe's (and Bill's sheer bloody-mindedness), that'd brought them on this quest. And though Jack'd hoped to find the region rather less inhospitable, it was nothing that he hadn't encountered, and overcome, before.

"Item, gentlemen," he said, looking around. "We've no boat, thus no means of returning to our ship."

Will murmured something in Martingale's ear, and Martingale said, "He says there are more, laid up under the houses."

"Excellent," said Jack, who was finding it difficult to cast so much as a glance at Will without remembering what Jack Shaftoe'd told him, last night, about the man's ... adornments. "Item," he went on, briskly, "there's a pair of perfidious Dutchmen --"

"Three, if you count Pieter Spitaels," corrected Shaftoe.

"Oh, what a shame: I'd clean forgot him. Three, then, unless he's threatened to pull their teeth or treat 'em for anything." A heartening murmur of amusement. "An' I suspect, Master Will, that more'n a few of your mates will be employed by Meinheer Koeppel, eh?"

"There are a score of them," said Will darkly. "Strong men."

Jack kept his smile plastered over his face, though inwardly he scowled and cursed. Twenty or more, against -- he flicked a gaze round the culvert -- nine of 'em. The odds were not insurmountable, but their position could be better.

"Item. We're skulking around in this godforsaken thicket, when we should be warm and dry. _I_ say while we're waiting, we make claim on one of those houses left empty by the Dutch, eh?"

There was a babble of approval and argument. Over it all, Jack Shaftoe said loudly to Picken, "Do they know we're near?"

Picken shrugged. "Might do, by now," he said. "But they weren't expecting you today, I don't reckon: there ain't that many Indians about." He glanced around, at Will and at Djagdao, who was sitting all close and cosy with John Burton. "'Cept the ones _you_ brought."

"Enough of that," said Jack. "These men have proved themselves." (Best not to think of how Will'd proved himself to Martingale, last night.) "What do you think, Mr Picken? Could we reach one of those vacant houses -- the one furthest from Meinheer Koeppel's abode, for preference -- without notice?"

"I know a way," said Will.

* * *

Jack, had he the breath and the strength, would've apologised to Will for his mockery of yesterday's path. That had been a Royal highway compared to the gluey sucking mud and leechy bogs through which the Warao led them now. It was near dusk, and the air was thick with vile bloodsucking bugs: Jack's neck, and his forearms, and his face were itching and stinging from this aerial attack. Sparrow, at his side, seemed immune. Perhaps it was the rum in his blood, or some vestige of Spitaels' fraudulent Cure, that kept them away.

Twice, now, Will'd had them fling themselves face-down in the muck, waiting for some indeterminate sign before he'd let them up again. "The Warao know this place," he'd said. "Know the paths." By which Jack understood that they were not, in fact, battling through virgin forest, but following some manner of _trail_ through Warao territory. This knowledge was not especially comforting.

But in his pocket, bulky against his hip, was the little leaf-wrapped parcel that represented new life for himself, and for glorious, vivid (if currently rather mud-streaked) Jack Sparrow.

How Jack longed to give that man a bath. To call for warm water -- Joe Henry might stretch his eyes, but never mind that -- and strip each filthy garment from Sparrow's lean body. To soak the cloth, and wash away filth, and sweat, and the clamminess that came from wearing clothes that had been soaked through, more than once, with rain and mud. To replace the lingering pungency of yellow smoke with the aphrodisiac scent of Jack Sparrow's clean skin. And perhaps a bit of that oil of Enoch's, too, though 'twas nearly --

"Jack," said Sparrow, soft and quiet behind him.

A thrill of startlement went through Jack's entire body, and he faltered, hoping that Sparrow'd stumble against him.

"No, don't stop: we're near, says Will. Keep walking, mate: I c'n talk to you as well like this."

Jack fought down the urge to protest, "But I want to _see_ you!" He went on, keenly aware now of Jack Sparrow just behind him, of Sparrow watching every slide and roll of Jack's aching body beneath his own mud-splashed garments.

"About Pieter Spitaels," said Sparrow.

" _What_ about him?" demanded Jack, somewhat more loudly than he'd intended. Djagdao, walking five paces in front of him, shot a questioning look over his shoulder: Jack shook his head. "What about him?" he said more quietly. "Other than that, once I get my hands on him, I'll --"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Sparrow.

Jack, dragged from his concupiscent reverie, had rather hoped for a more _enjoyable_ topic of conversation. He grunted, and swore as an unexpectedly deep puddle sucked eagerly at his boot. The drizzle had begun to gather itself into rain, growing insensibly harder: now it was heavy as hail, and Jack's skin smarted with each drop.

"I've plans for Mr Spitaels," murmured Sparrow, just loud enough to be heard above the roar of rain on leaves.

"Oh, me too," said Jack. "Quite a few of 'em. There's the one --"

"I want Enoch to talk to him," Sparrow went on, "an' see what it was he gave me: for though I've rallied marvellously under your hands, Jack, I still don't feel ... right."

"Got it," said Jack, swallowing several solicitous remarks concerning Sparrow's well-being. Christ, the man should be in bed, with Jack there to care for him. "Right. Enoch. After _that_ , can I --"

"Depends," said Sparrow, and now Jack could hear a reassuring wickedness in his voice. "Depends on whether he's of any use --"

A growling noise drowned out the conclusion of his sentence: Will had been warning them of the great cats who stalked this jungle, and Jack (who fancied a spotted cover for their bed) reached for his pistol. But Sparrow was chuckling. "Thunder, mate: we're in for a storm. ... Reckon our mate Pieter can turn lead to gold, eh? 'Cause _that_ 'd make him worth keeping."

"Enoch can't," said Jack, "or at least that's what he told me."

"Such knowledge is not gained lightly," said Enoch from the gloom behind them.

Jack rolled his eyes. No use enquiring how long Enoch'd been listening: but 'twas useless to be shy of him now. After all, he'd transmitted Jack's tenderest sentiments to that wizened old bloke ... only this morning, though it seemed an age ago. He'd heard it all.

"I've an idea," Enoch went on, "of how we might make our escape without further loss of life."

"Don't much care if _they_ lose their lives," put in Jack. "Two-faced louts, the lot of 'em."

"Indeed," said Enoch. "Captain Sparrow, would you lend me Mr Shaftoe?"


	38. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Eight

  
posting on behalf of [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**tessabeth**](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/), who is being Cosmopolitan  
  
  
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

There was, of course, only one sensible answer to Enoch’s question, and it ran along the lines of _I’d’ruther not_ , though possibly veering more t’ward _Fuck off, he’s with me_. But Jack restrained himself.

“Your thoughts, Mr Root?”

“Perhaps we could pause for a moment?”

Jack whistled, low, and Martingale, out ahead, stopped and turned; Jack signalled to him to hold fast, and he and Shaftoe, and shortly Bill Turner, huddled close to Enoch. Picken, Burton, and Djagdao lurked a few feet behind.

“Given the probable imbalance in numbers, it seems to me that a distraction might be in order,” said Enoch.

This much was fair enough, not to say obvious; Jack was tempted to squash the fellow’s presumption. There were two captains here already, and that was (surely) more than sufficient. But, still; Enoch Root. So he just said, “And?”

“And Jack and I could provide it. If Will would lead us away, perhaps to the other side of the settlement; the rest of you could await the signal, then recover Spitaels, and take your leave, while – I would hope – the majority of the Warao were otherwise engaged.”

“And yourselves?” said Jack, though all his thought was really for Shaftoe.

“God willing, we should be able to join you,” said Enoch with unnatural calm.

Jack pretended to consider, but didn’t have an alternative plan to counter with. And the fact was, that he preferred to split the party.

“Well enough,” he said. “Mr Turner, don’t you agree, that it’s better to divvy ourselves up, given the discrepancy in force that we’re facing?”

Bill nodded, but Shaftoe frowned. “Eh? How d’you figure that?” he argued. “Surely, Jack, if we’re only nine ‘gainst twenty, we should keep our numbers together?”

“Nonsense,” said Jack. “It don’t work that way. In fact I’d rather divide us in three, given the choice; three men against six’d only be outnumbered by three souls, an’ yet here we are outnumbered by _’leven_ ; which is a lot worse, ain’t it?”

“An interesting Mathematickal Interpretation,” said Enoch dryly. “But I don’t imagine this is the time or place to try to disabuse you of the notion.”

“Don’t imagine it is,” agreed Jack. “So, then, you want Mr Shaftoe, and the Warao?”

“And all the powder you can give me, if I may.”

Jack signalled Martingale over, and demanded his stores. The boy was less than happy, particularly to learn that he was to be separated from his mate; but he was a good lad, and handed over a hornful of powder. “Should be dry enough,” he said. “I keep it safe.”

Picken had a little more, and that was it; time to diverge. “See you at the boat,” Jack said. “And have a care with yourselves, gentlemen.” _Gentlemen,_ he said; but his eyes were all for Jack Shaftoe. Clear enough, that Enoch’s plan involved some form of explosive mayhem, and that was why he needed powder, and why he needed Shaftoe; and Jack didn’t like to think of what risks were attendant, what harm could be wreaked upon Jack Shaftoe’s person, by flame and burst.

“See you at the boat,” echoed Shaftoe, over his shoulder, as he followed Enoch and Will off to the left; and the three of them faded, quick and silvery, into the rain.

*

Jack jogged to catch up. Will was leading them back around behind the huts, which lay off to their right, with the river beyond them; screened by trees, but close enough that they’d cause to be careful and try not to make too much noise. Enoch and Will were talking low, Will gesturing at the forest ahead; he nodded at something Enoch said, and then ran off in front.

“Where the hell’s he off to?” Jack hissed at Enoch. “And are you going to bother telling _me_ what you’re planning?”

Enoch smiled infuriatingly. “He’s locating a certain plant for me. Surely you’ve formed some opinion of likely events?”

“Well,” said Jack, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you planned to used all that powder to _explode_ something; and I’d even suggest that you had fireworks in mind, that being a trick of yours that I must confess to’ve used to great effect more that once in the last few months.”

“A fine supposition.”

“And yet, not; firstly, because I really don’t think we’ve got the time required to go filing up pennies, let alone the fact that I hope you’ve got some if that’s what you’re considering, because I didn’t bring any spending money with me, and I’d say ol’ Will’s probably not particularly cash-rich.”

“No, no copper involved, you’re quite right; and yes, time is of the essence,” said Enoch equably, striding faster.

“And secondly, this place is, well, _wet_ ; excessively, unreasonably, despicably wet, the air, the plants, the wood, every bloody thing, soggy to its fucking core. A situation which seldom bodes well for plans which necessitate sudden _flammability_.”

“You’ve certainly learned to think in an impressively structured manner, Jack,” said Enoch. “You’re not disappointing me at all, I must say. So tell me: given these conditions, what will we need in order to produce the required result?”

“Divine intervention?” essayed Jack, promptly receiving the deserved response.

“All right, all right; something that will burn even when it’s wet?”

“Exactly.”

Jack thought, albeit very briefly, of suggesting that what they clearly required was some method of physically incorporating his unsnuffable passions vis-à-vis Jack Sparrow, but even his newfound candour with Enoch was insufficient to make that a viable statement.

“And I suppose you’ve got this magick substance, have you?”

For answer, Enoch pulled aside his cloak, revealing the bulky leather bag that he wore, crosswise, over his shoulder; and he bestowed one of his rare smiles on Jack. It was rather frightening.

“Never come too close to an Alchemist with a naked flame, Mr Shaftoe.”

*

They congregated a few feet back from the last of the hovels, at the edge of the forest. Martingale crouched down, peering amongst the pilings.

“There’s a boat, Captain,” he whispered, all triumphant. “An’ some oars.”

The hut was a good fifty feet from the river’s edge, across an expanse of mud; no chance of dragging the boat down there without anyone noting it. Bill looked like shit, and Jack was, by this point, taking half his weight. He needed rest.

“We’re going to get Mr Turner here into that hut, to wait,” Jack said. “An’ then the rest of us are going to go and find out where Mr Spitaels is, just so long as we can do’t without attracting anyone’s notice. Agreed?”

“Aye, Jack.”

Djagdao made a grunting noise, and Burton turned to him. “Jack, wait…” The Indian talked to him, low, half in English and half not; John Burton gave a chuff of laughter.

“He says we move like monsters through the trees, even the monkeys run from us. He says he’ll go and get Spitaels.”

Jack regarded the Indian sceptically, and Djagdao stared back, all impassive and black-eyed. Hell of a chest on him. Burton-sized, only all smooth and coffee-coloured. The most easily distracted portion of Jack’s brain wondered whether and where Djagdao wore his gold. Hmmm.

“Can I trust him, John? Why would he help us?”

Burton gave him a level look. “He’d help _me_ , Jack.”

It struck Jack that Djagdao had been brought along as guide; but that he, that Burton, might have a longer term plan in mind. “Is he one of us, now, then?” Jack asked, talking to Burton but watching Djagdao. “Is he coming with us, with you, on the _Pearl_?”

Burton flushed. “I, I thought—“

“”Course. You were right. It’s fine; you’re welcome,” Jack said, with a small incline of his head. “Go, then: but wait for Enoch’s distraction, whatever it is, before you try to take him.”

“Aye, Captain.” And then they were four.

Jack lowered Bill to the spongy ground, bade him wait, and signalled Picken and Martingale to follow him around the side of the house. There was a gap in the planking, and he peered inside.

Damn. Five Warao: he held up a hand for the others, all five fingers splayed. But three slept, on leafy pallets, covered with rough blankets. Two sat in the corner, talking. He could see no knives. He took a stealthy step back; huddled close to his men.

“We need silence, boys: silence. Quiet and fast, no gunfire. Three asleep. Ideas?”

Martingale grinned, a little smugly. “From Will,” he said, and pulled out one of the Warao blowpipes. “An’ this; the poison.” This was held in a leather pouch, and when Martingale opened it, Jack and Picken saw a thick black paste.

“Excellent fellow!” whispered Jack, bestowing his widest grin on Jamie Martingale, who flushed with pleasure. “Now, how many knives have you got?”

Martingale had only one, and Jack rolled his eyes; Picken was marginally better, with two, though one was overlarge for throwing. Jack, betwixt belt, coat, and both boots, produced four, and they smeared the blades of each with the paste. Jack crept back to the knothole, and checked positions; assigned each of his men a victim, and had them take a quick look before sidling round the front of the hovel, on either side of the open doorway. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the dim grey rain; no chance of telltale shadows being thrown, not in this place.

On Jack’s signal, death flew into the tiny hut, borne on a dart and on two flashing blades; Jack gave a loud cough, hoping to cover any sounds of dismay or combat, and then they were in. Picken made straight for the two unhurt sleepers, and their throats were cut before they’d truly roused—good, quick man. Jack launched himself at the larger of the awake men, who’d lurched to his feet, and would’ve been shouting, had Jack’s aim not been so fine that the knife in his neck prevented him; he was grabbing at a pipe at his belt when Jack’s second knife encountered his belly, and relieved him of the majority of its contents in one black and bloody sweep. The man sunk heavy to the floor, and Jack spun round to where Martingale was locked in struggle with the other. Martingale, he thought, was probably winning; but some things shouldn’t be left to chance, and he grabbed the fellow’s head from behind, jerked and twisted with all his weight, and there was a sickening crunch. The Warao fell, Martingale with him, and Jack turned to Picken; but his great meaty paws were performing a similar office upon the last fellow, already swollen-eyed and gagging from the poison, and he needed no assistance.

“Fine work, gents,” said Jack admiringly; five dead, and not a peep! Good work, that was. “Pile ‘em up, an’ I’ll get Bootstrap.”

He snuck out, and pulled Bill to his feet. Poor Bill; trying his damnedest, he was, but there was no strength left in him. Pale, and mud-smeared, and shamed for being the weakest, he leant gratefully against Jack and let himself be walked around the hut.

They rounded the corner; and damnation, they were seconds away from being hid, when Jack heard a shout, a Warao shout. He shoved Turner through the doorway, and spun around to see who’d made the noise; saw, oh fuck, near a dozen of the bastards not a hundred yards away, up by the Koeppels’ home.

But not one of them was looking his way. They were looking at the light, white as starlight but a thousand times brighter, that was hovering at the edge of the forest; and as they watched, as they all watched, a terrible keening shriek began, and the light moved, fast, very fast, spinning in a great circle and screaming. Some of the Warao fell to their knees, some began to run t’ward it, and more away; Martingale came pushing out the doorway, clambering over Bill where he’d fallen, demanding, “Jack, what in the Devil’s name is—oh!”

A second light fizzed into life, and started that spinning, that banshee howl: a third.

God Almighty, Enoch Root was good at distraction. “Get the boat, now!” Jack ordered; the Warao were being rallied, now, by the Koeppels, and driven—if Jack was any judge of either Dutch or sign language—to go and investigate, which they were doing, all huddled in a tight protective bunch. And here, from a hut in the middle of the group, came a strange four-legged construct that upon close examination turned out to be Burton, with Pieter Spitaels over his shoulder, kicking and writhing, and Djagdao behind them, hands firmly over Spitaels’ mouth.

Picken and Martingale were dragging the canoe down to the river, its flat bottom so much better designed for such an action than the angles of the _Pearl_ ’s poor gig; Jack pulled Bill to his feet, and started to follow.

But where, oh holy fucking hell, where was Jack Shaftoe?

They were nearly at the water’s edge; Jack’d bundled Bill into the boat, and was lending his strength to the final muddy pull, squelching ankle-deep through that horrid black sucking filth (Christ, he never wanted to come to land again, how anyone could choose this over a ship he’d never never know). Burton and his burden weren’t far behind… and then Picken was splashing in water, and the canoe raised under Jack’s hands, afloat. “In!” he shouted, “start rowing!” Martingale and Picken clambered in, the little craft rocking madly, and Jack hoped to God it would take all ten of them; here were Burton and Djagdao, and as soon as they dumped Spitaels unceremoniously into the bottom of the boat he was screaming blue murder.

Bill, quicker than Jack would’ve given him credit for in his current state, delivered a crashing blow to the Walloon’s temple, and he was abruptly silent. But the damage was done – the Warao had turned, and were running in their direction, along the top of the strand, along the line of houses.

_Jack Shaftoe, where the **fuck** are you?_ Jack pulled out his pistol, took aim at the leading runner, and fired; the man fell, and the one behind him too. Burton was shouting, “Get in the boat, Jack, get in the damned boat!” But there was no chance, not without—

“Not late, are we?” shouted Jack Shaftoe, running full tilt round from behind the last hovel, the one all full of dead men; and there was Root behind him, and Will. The Warao were getting closer, several of them now raising pipes to their lips, but oh, not in range yet; and there was a report from behind him, and another, and Jamie Martingale had taken down three more, one with a pistol ball and two with scattered musket shot, though it wouldn’t hold them, and Shaftoe was clambering through the mud, and Jack should be in retreat but he wasn’t, he was running up the beach towards the man. Shaftoe was grinning, fucking _grinning_ , and roaring, “Get to the boat, you bloody idiot!” and Jack’s heart was soaring, leaping, swooping with escape and victory, and then they were all splashing into the water and swimming out the last few yards because Picken and Burton hadn’t slowed one whit.

“Row, row, for all you’re worth!” Jack panted, hauling himself into the canoe, and it tipped crazily; Shaftoe was pulling himself and Root in the other side, and Jack held a hand down to Will, pulled him in like a fish. Jamie didn’t pause in his reloading, and let off another shot at the Indians; some of them had begun to drag another boat down to the water. And then there came a great thundery boom from out in the bay, a flash of light; West, deciding to remind the natives that there was a far greater firepower at hand. The Warao on the beach faltered; Jack, turning, could hear an enraged tirade with Dutch inflexions, and there saw Johannes Koeppel, arms outflung as he raged at his allies, or servants, or whatever he phant’sied they might be.

Whatever it was, he was incorrect in his assumptions, if the way in which the Warao turned, and began to walk towards him and his son, if the way his voice rose to a hoarse pleading shriek, were to be believed.

Some things, some endings, no matter how well-deserved, Jack did not care to bear witness to. He looked ahead, to his ship.


	39. A Second Opinion, Chapter Thirty-Nine

  
  
Whatever ordnance the Warao had extracted from the late Johannes Koeppel and his son, 'twas not sufficient for the Indians to mount any but the most suicidal attack against the _Black Pearl_ 's cannons. By the time the shore party had reached the _Pearl_ , and were scrambling up the ship's concave black hull -- Bill Turner, still whey-faced and weak, handed up the accommodation ladder like a bundle of laundry -- the beach behind them, fading in the crepuscular gloom, was empty, save for two limp pale figures lying in the mud.

"Got what was coming to 'em," said Jack cheerily, elbowing Picken.

"Savages," opined Picken. "An' we've brought another pair of 'em aboard," he expanded, jerking his head in the direction of Djagdao. "Happen we'll all be stabbed in our beds, come daylight."

"Lighten up, mate," said Jack witheringly. "Or we'll wish we'd left you behind, with your mates the Dutch."

The men who'd stayed on board were gathering in the waist of the ship, some of 'em looking askance at the newcomers. Jack Sparrow, in hasty conference with West, cast an eye over his crew: he headed for the quarterdeck with a vitality that belied his recent ill-health, and made Jack quite desperate to be alone with him. He stirred restlessly, and Stone gave him a quelling look.

"You'll have noticed," said Sparrow loudly, "that the party that's returned to you is somewhat diff'rently composed to that which left, day before yesterday. Mr Gill, I'm sorry to say, fell to a treacherous attack -- 'twas an Indian who slew him, but the order came from a Dutchman, name of Koeppel. Those of you with spyglasses of your own might be able to see his corpse, there on the beach. An' Captain Turner was gravely wounded by the same man." Here Sparrow gestured at Bootstrap Bill, who -- propped against the rail, swigging steaming rum from a beaker -- was rallying somewhat. "'Twas only through the hospitality of the Chibcha, and the intervention of Mr Root and Mr Burton, that any of us survived to return. Now, we've a couple of recruits, who're joining the company -- assuming they care for you lot, and you for them of course -- to balance our recent losses." He doffed his hat and lowered his eyes for a moment. "Djagdao, here, is vouched for by Mr Burton, who you'll be pleased to welcome back."

"Good to see you, John, mate!" said West, beaming, and Burton flushed under his tan: he smiled at Djagdao as the Chibcha came to stand at his side. Was it clear to everyone, as to Jack, that the two were more than mere friends? Or was he somehow _attuned_ to such things, perhaps by the invisible thread that linked himself and Jack Sparrow?

Sparrow was sending Jack another of those fiery looks, and he held Jack's gaze as he went on. "And Mr Martingale's found a, a _friend_ , too." General laughter: Jack was relieved to see Stone guffawing as loud as any of 'em, though surely Will's presence would put paid to any lingering hopes he might have of winning Jamie Martingale for himself.

"This is Will," Sparrow went on, "an' none of us -- Captain Turner most especially -- would've made it back on board, if not for him. So I trust you'll all make the pair of them welcome, to the best of your abilities. Perhaps, gents, we might even show them how _we_ celebrate, later on."

This suggestion was warmly received: someone shouted out, "An' where're we bound next, Captain?"

Jack saw Sparrow shoot a quick enquiring glance at Bill, and Bill grin and shrug as if to say, your call. "'Member that reef, gents, where Felton and Davies fell, where the _Furia_ set upon us as we sought the treasure that my grandaddy'd mapped so careful? Well, Mr Shaftoe and I have been considering our options, vis-à-vis that treasure: an' we think we've a way to extract it without further risk to ourselves."

This was delivered with several degrees of certainty more than Jack recalled from their (usually rum-fuelled) discussions of various stratagems for treasure-retrieval: but he kept quiet, and did his best to look confident and optimistic. And after all they'd Enoch again, now: and he'd brought off that Diversion, earlier, with effortless ease. How hard could it be to harness Enoch's undoubted Alchemickal Expertise, and Jack's own experience of explosives, charges, mines, black powder et cetera, and Sparrow's native guile, and win that treasure for themselves?

Though first he'd have to do something about that _other_ distraction, about the invisible yet deliciously taut cord that joined him to Jack Sparrow, that seemed to thrum and resonate every time he looked at Sparrow: every time that Sparrow looked back at him with that bright incendiary look.

The men were talking 'mongst themselves, now, all animated and excited: and Jack was aware of a sharp desire to have Jack Sparrow to himself. To talk, yes. To ---

Jack's hand, in his pocket, encountered something smooth and waxy. Almost he drew it out before he recalled what it was: that little parcel of leaves, won at the cost of such strange ... Christ, had it only been this morning?

He spied Enoch Root making for the stairway, and headed him off. "Enoch, a word?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"'Tis about this ..." Jack looked left and right, and leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "This Cure, and its Methodology."

"Indeed," said Enoch briskly. "Perhaps you and Captain Sparrow could attend me in my cabin? That's to say, Captain Turner's cabin -- if I'm still to share with him."

"'Tis something _crowded_ ," said Jack, "with that Spitaels bloke's dunnage. While it's being cleared, though -- Meinheer Spitaels being accommodated in the _brig_ , of late -- perhaps we could have the, the Consultation in Jack's, in the Captain's cabin?"

"What's that?" said Sparrow from behind Jack: and Jack wondered if the surge in his blood, his brain, his heart was visible to Enoch Root, or whether that smile was simply at Jack's own stammer as he said, "The C-cure."

They settled themselves around the little table in Sparrow's cabin, with cups of wine. Enoch's preference, that'd been: he'd claimed a desire for a clear head, though Jack could see no good reason for this. Himself, he felt the need to drink deep and long, while Enoch outlined -- with admirable sang-froid -- the Treatment Regime.

"...and this _subcutaneous_ insertion will deliver the efficacious portion of the wood directly to those areas most extremely affected," Enoch was saying equably.

"Subcutaneous?" said Sparrow, his voice at a rather higher pitch than its usual register.

"Ah, 'tis nothing," said Jack scornfully, determined not to let his squeamishness show -- especially as _Sparrow_ seemed likely to voice any reasonable doubts on Jack's behalf. He plucked up a pinch of dried leaf. "So what're the herbal supplements for?"

"Ah," said Enoch, and now he looked somewhat less confident than before, and reluctant, too, to meet either of their gazes. "The _other_ element of the Cure may cause you some distress, gentlemen."

"What, more distress than sticking--"

"In order for the lignum vitae to be effective," interrupted Enoch, his tone rather more solemnly portentous than before, "you must abstain from, shall we say, carnal pursuits: and these leaves, brewed and steeped and the infusion taken twice a day, will rob you of all such ... urges."

* * *

Jack Sparrow wanted to laugh at Shaftoe's expression: but in truth 'twas no joking matter.

"I have to tell you, Mister Root," he said, with what he felt to be commendable restraint, "that it'll take more than a cup of tea to quench my, ah, natural affection --"

" _Unnatural_ affection, more like," muttered Shaftoe, his knee nudging Jack's own.

"-- for Mr Shaftoe," concluded Jack, letting his hand drop beneath table-level in order to run a surreptitious finger along the hard muscle of Jack Shaftoe's thigh.

Enoch, infuriatingly, merely raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Perhaps you'll be surprised, Captain Sparrow," he said. "Who knows, you may even take to it: the increased clarity of mind, when not distracted by lechery and libido: the freedom from --"

"Aye, but as it happens I don't _wish_ to be free," said Jack Shaftoe.

"Nevertheless, Jack, the Cure demands it. Shall I show you how to prepare the infusion?" said Enoch, already reaching for the wadded leaves.

Jack snatched it from under Enoch's hand, narrowly beating Shaftoe's own grab. "Tomorrow, I reckon."

"You surprise me, Jack: I'd've thought you'd be eager to be rid of the Pox," said Enoch.

"Oh, aye: but there's a few _other_ things I'm eager for, an' all," said Jack, fixing Shaftoe with his most heatedly explicit stare.

Shaftoe blushed -- a phenomenon which had delightful, though distinctly less localised, effects on Jack's own circulation -- and chuckled. "I should think Bill's sorted out some cabin-space for you by now," he said to Enoch. "An' we'll be underway soon enough. What say we reconvene tomorrow, and discuss this further?"

'Twas as curt a dismissal as Jack'd ever heard, yet Enoch did not seem offended. He smiled, and said, "Tomorrow morning, then," and took his leave.

"Tomorrow morning?" said Shaftoe, edging his stool closer to Jack's.

"Aye, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack. "Which leaves us tonight, to ... indulge all that lechery."

"And libido, aye." Shaftoe pressed against Jack -- knee, thigh, hip, his hand to Jack's shoulder, and that intense blue stare turning Jack's mind to happy mush -- and said, "What if this, this _tisane_ don't work?"

"Not work? Why wouldn't it work?"

"But what if it don't?"

"If it don't, then we're no worse than before: and," said Jack fiercely, "I'll be yours 'til the day I die."

A small solemn silence, in which everything that he wished he had -- and wished he had _not_ \-- said seemed to pass between the two of them on some non-verbal plane.

"And I yours," said Jack Shaftoe, as light as though he didn't mean it. "But Jack, what if it works for me and not for you? Or t'other way?"

"Don't paint the devil on the wall, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, as certain and bright as he could manage given the terrible visions -- unable to touch Jack Shaftoe for fear of re-sickening, or of passing the Pox to him anew; confined to quick hand-jobs and, mmm, reprises of that night when Shaftoe'd made him _watch_ (though Jack would bet that'd lose its savour, if it was all he could do) -- that Shaftoe's words were evoking. "There's no reason at all that it shouldn't work for two as well as one."

"Aye," said Shaftoe, with that slow broad smile that made Jack's spine quiver. "Bill's on deck, ain't he? ... Would you just make sure that door's shut fast, Jack?"

Mystified, Jack rose to check the door: and as he turned from it, felt Jack Shaftoe's sure weight against him, pressing him to the black wood.

"'Member that first time I kissed you, Jack?" murmured Shaftoe damply 'gainst Jack's ear.

"Not 'specially," said Jack, for the sole purpose of being forcibly reminded: and when Shaftoe'd kissed him long and hard (and Jack had given back as good as he got, writhing and curving and putting his hands on Shaftoe's arse to pull him close), Jack said, "Oooh yes, it's coming back to me now."

"Remember what you said to me?"

"I told you you'd always be wondering," smirked Jack, for whom this single line had proved more splendidly efficacious than any financial, magickal or commercial inducement that Jack had ever offered.

"Aye," growled Shaftoe, low. "An' I'm wondering, Jack: and I hate the thought of never _knowing_. I --"

Jack knew what he was going to ask -- no doubt all hedged round with disclaimers and the like -- and was distantly amazed at his own urge to postpone that event. But oh Christ, what if they _did_ \-- what if he, Jack Sparrow, fucked Jack Shaftoe -- and it was the only time, ever?

So he put his mouth over Jack Shaftoe's (his hands being otherwise occupied in exploration of the glorious curves of Shaftoe's arse) to halt his words; they kissed for a long time, and by the end they both were breathing hard. But Jack, all cunning, knew he must speak first, and he recovered his breath while Shaftoe was still running his mouth, all soft and warm, along Jack's throat.

"No, Mr Shaftoe, you're going to do me, and I'm -- mmm, oh, that's nice -- going to revel in it, and I shall tell you so: and when we're both well -- and let that be proof of my absolute and utter belief in that nasty set of tricks on the table -- then, why then, I'll give you what you want. But not in haste: not --"

Was that relief, on Shaftoe's face? (I'll cure _that_ , and all, thought Jack.) Shaftoe said, "All right: I can't deny I'm dying -- desperate -- to be inside you again, Jack, oh Christ yes. But you tell me ... tell me ..."

Jack made his hands pause, there on the buttons of Shaftoe's breeches: "Tell you what?" he said, all innocent.

"Tell me," said Jack Shaftoe, "what it is you'll do to _me_ , so that I may do the same to you, and know how it feels to _give_ it. Give it to _you_ , Jack Sparrow." And his mouth descended ardently upon Jack's own.

Now Jack was torn indeed, for he had an idea that Jack Shaftoe might have rather different requirements -- especially for that blissful Inauguration -- to Jack's own: but he could not long deny his own desires, nor the impressive fervour with which Shaftoe pressed against him, his cock springing free to Jack's hand, his own fingers clumsy on the buttons of Jack's breeches, his mouth fierce and sweet against Jack's own. And if Jack must needs take it slow -- and writhe and plead for it, there on the bed, as Shaftoe's long fingers opened him up all gradual -- why, then the feel of Shaftoe's yard sliding inside, slow and hard and relentless (just 'magine what it might be like, for him, when ... when ...) was sweeter for being so long-sought.

Oh, slow and sweet indeed, and Jack bit his lip when his baser self might've begged more, faster, harder; instead he took it, and took it, and kissed and caressed like a girl, and found himself beyond words before he'd said the half of what he felt. And Jack Shaftoe -- for a wonder -- was silent too: but he kissed Jack as though kissing were another language, and the two of them speaking in code.


	40. A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty

  
  
  
“Tea, Captain Sparrow?”

“Don’t mind if I do, Mr Shaftoe,” said Jack brightly, lying through his teeth. He sat up, pulling the wretched excuse for a sheet about his loins (it’d ripped, loudly and definitively, the second—or was it third?—time that they’d been writhing and groaning beneath it last night) and hissing through his teeth as various parts of his corpus complained over their excessive misuse; he accepted the gently steaming mug which Shaftoe passed him, sniffing it dubiously. It smelt of, looked like, nothing; he could not imagine that it would suffice to temper his excessive lusts towards its provider.

Jack Shaftoe toed off his boots and climbed to sit, cross-legged, at the end of the cot. He held a cup of his own, and Jack couldn’t help noting that it was still full.

“What’s it like, then? Have you tasted?”

“No,” Shaftoe confessed, with a heavy sigh. “Are you sure we need to start this right away?”

“Why, ain’t you looking forward to it?” said Jack innocently, drawing curlicues on the tender inside of Shaftoe’s foot with one tea-warmed finger. “To being freed from all your animal urges? ‘Cause you seem to have an awful _surfeit_ of ‘em. Last night, Jack, ooh, they were ‘coming quite… uncontrollable.”

Shaftoe went beetroot, and gave a shamefaced grin; there had indeed been some remarkably savage moments last night, and Jack bore the teeth marks to prove it. “I didn’t hear you objecting too vociferously at the time,” he said.

“I was hardly in a position to,” mused Jack, “since my mouth was under siege—or was it _occupation_?—at the time.”

A small silence, and a warm look; “Jesus, last night was fine, Jack,” Shaftoe avowed. “Unbelievably fine; ‘tis truly sinful, what you drive me to. And—oh, mate, surely more of a sin to try to quash it?” He snatched the mug out of Jack’s grasp, then, and deposited both drinks on the floor, not gently either, before pushing Jack down, and lying hard and heavy atop him, his face just inches away, his hair a thick pale curtain shielding them from the world as he licked at Jack’s ear, muttering, “Just once more, eh, Jack? Once, for luck?”

Shivery delicious, it was, his tongue on Jack’s skin, his hot moist breath on Jack’s neck, and ah, the weight of him, so perfect… but…

“I hate to say it, Mr Shaftoe,” Jack murmured, “but the fact is, I’m still recovering from your last couple of _Once more for luck_ s.”

“What, d’you mean—? Oh. Sorry.” So crestfallen that Jack could hardly bear it.

“That’s right, I’m afraid,” he sighed, tempering the message with a feline, affectionate rub of his face against Jack Shaftoe’s. “Hmm… ain’t it a pity that _you_ ain’t up for taking it… we could’ve took turns, and who knows, I might’ve been begging you for it right now,” he teased; but Shaftoe shook his head, grinning.

“Don’t even try that tack, Jack; you’re the one as dissuaded and diverted me last night, and I haven’t forgot it. I understand, mind you; you’ve probably got a bit of that, oh, what’s that newfangled phrase? Ooh, yes, _performance anxiety_. After what you’ve been taking from _me_.”

“Uh!” cried Jack in mock dismay, and bit Shaftoe’s lip, a little harder than strictly necessary (if _necessary_ was a concept that could ever be applied to biting the lip of another man), and Shaftoe laughed, and they rolled and wrestled for a moment; and just as Jack was starting to enjoy that, and wonder if _maybe, after all (if they were particularly gentle with one another)_ Shaftoe sat up, reaching a long arm down for that insipid infusion of Enoch’s.

“Very well, if I can’t fuck you, I better drink this damn stuff, I suppose,” he said, and without further ado, sculled it in two great gulps.

“Oh,” said Jack, splayed on his back and undeniably disappointed; and yet, here, surely, was an excuse to test some boundaries. He hummed as he climbed off the bed, and went and stood in the middle of the room, his weight all on one hip, his yard proclaiming its recovered enthusiasm, his head to one side as he stroked himself all slow and lascivious.

“So, tell me, Jack… is that tea working? Still fancy me, at all? Even the veriest little?”

Shaftoe’s stare (which Jack’d seen the like of once, he thought, when he picked up a three-month-marooned, near starved sailor and fed him Davies’ lamb shanks) was sufficient answer; and Jack laughed, cruelly, when Shaftoe put his hands over his face and groaned, and muttered, “If you’re going to do that, I sh’ll be forced to drink yours too, Captain Sparrow; that, or your tender arse can be damned, and I shall have my way whether or not you and Mr Root recommend it.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” said Jack (who’d never repented of anything in his life), and he swooped down and grabbed his own tea, drinking it fast and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“See?” said Shaftoe. “It does nothing.”

“Hmm,” said Jack, staring challengingly down at his unwilting erection. “Maybe it takes a little time?”

“Maybe,” said Shaftoe with a wicked smirk, “we’ll need to put in place some sort of Experimental Schedule; a testing programme, if you will, to ascertain whether or not it’s working.”

“It’s important to be _sure_ ,” Jack agreed sagely. “Every hour or so, say, we could, um, _assess_ one another ; and I’d suggest an ascending sequence of Experimental Provocations.”

“Aye; to start with, like now, for example, you’ve no need to do more than _look_ at me,” said Shaftoe happily, “and oh, Jack, I’m bursting to fuck you.”

“And in a little while, p’rhaps I’ll _kiss_ you, and see whether you’re still… interested.”

“And later, haw,” put in Shaftoe, with a wicked glint, “I’ll lick you just there on the back of your neck, where it makes you growl.”

“Mmmm. And then, ooh, what say I lick your ear, just as you did to me just now, all hot roary breath and tickle? You like that, eh?”

“As a rule,” said Shaftoe, blinking very slowly in that insanely provocative way he had. “If we pass that test… why, an hour later, Jack, surely I should pay some attention to your chest.”

“’Nother part of me that’s still recovering,” noted Jack, and Shaftoe laughed, and advised him that if he hadn’t wanted to be bitten, he should’ve shut up about gold rings and how much pain might or might not be involved. Jack grinned, and stroked his poor abused bodypart(s) lovingly, before continuing: “A fine suggestion, then, and I’d further suggest that by lunchtime, I’d better get into your breeches, and do some serious provoking.”

“Hands? Or mouth?” demanded Shaftoe, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Maybe,” said Jack, all poundy with lust, “I should save my mouth for later in the afternoon, or after our next dose, when the challenge really begins… oh, I’ll do such things to you, Jack Shaftoe, you’ll never resist it, no matter what’s in that potion, I swear to you.”

But Shaftoe, who’d been shifting about and starting to breathe right deep and hard, suddenly wrinkled up his nose and frowned, and said, “’Bout this afternoon, though… I saw Enoch, on the way to the galley; he suggested later today, for the, ah, the other part of the procedure.”

Jack detumesced with obscene rapidity. “Oh. Right. That part.”

Shaftoe nodded, and smiled all wry. Jack sighed, and knelt down to pull his breeches out from under the cot.

“Listen, Jack,” said Shaftoe, “there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on then, though I doubt it’ll be half so entertaining,” Jack grumbled, buttoning his breeches and then rifling through his sea-chest for a shirt. There was a sizable pile of mud- and blood-drenched clothing in the corner; must set Joe Henry on to that today… he tried, hard, to think Busy Thoughts that might distract him from a) what he shouldn’t do with Jack Shaftoe right now, and b) what he was supposed to do with Jack Shaftoe this afternoon.

Shaftoe, as was his serendipitous wont, promptly produced a distraction, albeit an atypical one.

“Spitaels,” he announced. “A right little bastard, yes?”

“Um. Yes,” Jack said, diverted by the sheer non sequitur of it. He looked up to see that Shaftoe’s face had gone hard; was more like that fighter’s face that Jack recalled from their very first meeting, back on that little islet. Ooh, Jack wouldn’t be Pieter Spitaels, not for all the gold in New Spain.

“You an’ I both know he poisoned the water with that belladonna, for all that he tried to cover his tracks after,” said Shaftoe, in a manner that was nastily reminiscent of a judge recounting the Evidence, and gave Jack several unpleasant flashbacks. “And you heard what Mick said, today; soon’s we were gone, he was in cahoots with the Dutchmen, telling ‘em all manner of lies.”

“Mmmm,” agreed Jack, disentangling his second best sash, and pining for his favourite, hacked up by Jack Shaftoe and bled upon so profusely by Bill Turner before being abandoned in the jungle.

“So what’re you going to do with him?”

“Eh?” said Jack, his mind dominated by thoughts of Accessories.

“With Spitaels. Jack, are you paying any attention here, or shall I come back when you’ve finished prettifying?”

“Sorry. Sorry. ‘Course I’m paying attention. Hanging on your every word, mate. Spitaels. Yes.”

“What are you going to do with him?” said Shaftoe, glaring. “Because if you don’t have a plan, well, I do.”

“Do you? Can’t say as I’ve thought about it, much. Seem to’ve been a bit, um, otherwise engaged, since we got back on board,” said Jack, cocking an eyebrow, and pulling on his boots. “What d’you want ‘im for, then?”

*

Jack Shaftoe paused for a moment, and considered whether or not to share the full extent of his thoughts about suitable retribution for Pieter Spitaels. It was one of those things that was gloriously right in his head, but he had a sneaking suspicion that its shining conceptual perfection had more to do with the Imp of the Perverse and its savage tastes than it did with the mores of your average Civilised Man. On balance, then, perhaps he should keep it to himself.

“Let’s just keep him round, till the reef, eh, Jack?”

“But what _for_?” insisted Sparrow, who’d finally disengaged from his protracted search in his sea-chest, and was winding a faded strip of indigo cloth about his waist.

“Oh!” cried Jack, improvising a diversion, “I think perhaps we should go an’ check on our new recruits, don’t you?” He made for the door, but had barely put a hand to the latch when laughing Jack Sparrow spun him back against the wood, pressing up against him just as Jack’d done the night before, and insisting that he’d not be set off track so easy, and Mr Jack Shaftoe had better share his thoughts, or pay the price for keeping secrets from his captain.

But Jack, suspecting that he knew what coin that price might be paid in, if not its particular value, was not persuaded in the least (in fact rather the reverse) and merely grinned rather smugly, happy to’ve created a secret that Sparrow would bother trying to extract from him. “I think,” he said, “I’ll leave it at that; we shall see, when the time comes, whether my idea’s acceptable to you or not. Now come on: ain’t you hungry? An’ don’t you want to check on Bill, or the new men?”

*

The damp darkness of the brig was broken, a light approaching; Pieter squinted, and huddled back into the corner. But his visitor was not Jack Shaftoe, nor Bill Turner, the source of Pieter’s latest bruise; he was all swathed in a long black robe, and the dim lanthorn light flickered over a tawny beard. It was; it was…

“Enoch Root? Enoch the Red?” Pieter breathed. Half in awe; half in fear. This man was an Alchemist indeed. A scholar among scholars. A name known, spoken in hushed tones; a face seldom seen, a traveller, a stranger in the deepest sense of it. Some said he was not real. Others that he was more than real. If there was any man on this vermin-ridden devil’s ship who could be Pieter’s intellectual equal, a colleague, a confrere, this was surely he. That lanthorn had ignited a little spark of hope in Pieter’s breast.

“And you must be Pieter Spitaels,” said Enoch Root, placing his light outside the cell door, and settling himself on a small three-legged stool.

“I am he. You have, have heard of me, perhaps?” Pieter essayed, hopefully.

Root smiled, cold as a raincloud. “Not through any sources that would flatter you, I fear. But my friend Jack Shaftoe has spoken of you. A lot.”

“Oh. Oh. I do not mean to, to denigrate your friendship,” said Pieter, his heart racing madly at the sound of that name, “but I must tell you that I know Jack Shaftoe for a savage, a madman and, I fear, an impostor—he may not even be an Alchemist, Mr Root!—and I should hesitate, were I you, to claim him comrade.”

“I suspect I know him better than you, Meinheer, and in circumstances which are more conducive to amity. For example… I have never poisoned anyone he cares for.”

Oh, would they never stop spreading those dreadful tales? Pieter, exasperated, grasped the cold iron bars of the brig and shook them, pressing his face up close as he cried, “I was doing as I was requested to do, Mr Root! I was attempting to cure the man!”

“I did not question your motivations, sir. I merely described the outcome of your actions. You would do well to learn to clarify your thinking. But let us put semantic argument aside; I am here, now, to ask you what form your attempted cure took, and in what dosage.”

“I can scarce recall,” said Pieter sulkily, “given that I prepared the remedy under duress, and was beaten by Jack Shaftoe in the process. Not to mention his savagery after, when the captain was… ill.”

“Cast your mind back,” said Enoch Root. “I’m confident you can manage it. Being a professional, et cetera.”

Somewhat mollified, Pieter began to describe his theory, his tripartite treatment; he peppered his monologue with numerous references, some to philosophers whose writings were actually relevant to his remedy, and others randomly, with a sly sideways look into the dark, to see whether Enoch Root knew of whom he spoke.

But Root’s leathery face was impassive. “And what was the binding agent of the bolus?” he demanded, and, “What purity of quicksilver did you use? What measure?”; “Aqua vitae in what form?” and “Hmph,” when advised. By the end of Pieter’s recitation, Root was thin lipped; as Pieter fell silent, his visitor stood, lifting the lanthorn high, standing there like some Old Testament prophet, all grim and sure.

“Pieter Spitaels: you may well be an intelligent man, but you are a painfully foolish one. And yet, for all that, a fortunate man. Very fortunate.”

_Fortunate?_ “Hah!” snorted Pieter, looked at his surroundings, and briefly (painfully) contemplating his probable future.

“Fortunate that Jack Sparrow lives still. Few would have survived your intervention. And—knowing Jack Shaftoe as I do—you would not have enjoyed many more breaths, had the worst happened. Goodbye, sir; and, when you depart this ship, may I suggest, very very strongly, that you apply yourself to some new profession.”

And Enoch Root, with his light and his tiny piece of hope, was gone.


	41. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-One

  
Proxy-posted by her Adoring Co-Conspirator   


'Twas past noon, and their afternoon appointment with Enoch Root was drawing near: and Jack Shaftoe really, really wished that the bloody tea would start working.

He and Jack Sparrow had washed down their midday meal -- an indifferent concoction of salt pork, rice and plantain -- with more of the stuff, and Jack was expecting, any moment, to feel his entire body grow cool and indifferent with the evaporation of the urge to take hold of Jack Sparrow, drag him below, and fuck him again.

Oh, last night had been fine: nay, every night spent in Jack Sparrow's arms was fine, and Jack must find another word to describe the unquenchable passion that'd turned 'one last time' into a veritable debauch. He could not help smiling to himself at the thought of how very, well, _energetic_ he'd felt, how very avidly Sparrow'd taken everything that Jack had to give him, not once, not twice, but --

"Ready, Mr Shaftoe?" murmured Sparrow, who'd crept up on Jack and caught him unawares, mid-reverie.

Jack made a face. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said, turning to look Sparrow up and down. Oh, perhaps there was a shade less swagger and sway to Jack Sparrow this afternoon, and his smile was surely tempered with some caution, some reluctance: but Jack, still, could not look at him without experiencing a sharp desire to ... yes, well.

"Is that brew working on you, yet?" he said, falling into step beside Sparrow as he headed aft.

Sparrow turned a considering gaze 'pon Jack. "Do you mean, has the urge to kiss, and lick, and suck, and ... et cetera; has it left me?"

"Aye, Captain Sparrow," said Jack through clenched teeth. "That's precisely what I mean."

"I did feel your last Provocation lacked a little ... fervour," said Sparrow. "But p'rhaps that was just me, eh?"

"You mean," said Jack, grabbing Sparrow's shoulder and leaning close, "when I put my hand down --"

"Precisely," said Sparrow, with a nostalgic smile. "Seems to me that there was a delay of, oooh, several heartbeats, 'fore I _rose_ to that partic'lar Experiment."

"Perhaps," said Jack darkly, "the _other_ part of the Cure will join with the, shall we say, more subtle effects of that tea, and render us suddenly and completely uninterested in one another."

Sparrow made a moue. "'Twouldn't surprise me, Mr Shaftoe."

"Perhaps," said Jack, drawing Sparrow into the dark corner by the companionway, "perhaps we should try another Provocation, eh?"

Sparrow pressed close against him in a way that proved to Jack the utter futility of the Chibcha's vaunted Anti-Inflammatory: but before he could demonstrate this to the full extent required by the Experiment, he heard someone cry, "Ah, Captain Sparrow!" and, biting back an ungentlemanly response, saw Enoch Root emerging from the stairwell.

"Time for the guaiacum, gentlemen?" enquired Enoch, showing not one twitch of reaction to their proximity.

Jack Sparrow stepped away from Jack, and straightened his coat. "Very well, Mr Root. Captain Turner?" he called.

"Aye?" said Bootstrap, from the quarterdeck. Looking much better, was Bootstrap Bill; his face'd lost that grey sheen, and (unlike Jacks Sparrow and Shaftoe) he'd clearly slept long and soundly last night.

"You have the helm, Captain Turner," said Sparrow, tipping his hat to Bill. "Mr Shaftoe and I have a, an Appointment with Mr Root: we may be some time."

Jack winced at the thought. "Rather get it over with," he muttered, following Enoch towards the great stern cabin. "Enoch, do we have to do this over again? Or is it just the once?"

"As to that," said Enoch Root, ushering them into the cabin and snicking the door shut behind them both, "it all depends on the efficacy of the first application."

"Well," said Jack as brightly as he could, "let's hope it's efficacious in the extreme, eh?" He hooked his foot around a stool and sat down.

"Indeed," said Enoch. Sparrow had disposed himself in the chair next to Jack, boots propped on the table, the very image of insouciance: but he was watching Enoch carefully as the alchemist produced that little leaf-bound packet -- rather ragged now -- and laid it on the table.

"What was it you called it, before?" enquired Jack, eager to delay the moment of treatment.

"Guaiacum," said Enoch Root. "Or lignum vitae -- signifying 'wood of life' -- to give it the name by which it's known to the apothecaries of Christendom." He opened the packet and spread its contents across the scarred oak table: a dozen or so wooden spills, dark with sap or oil, sharpened at both ends. Each was the length of a finger-tip -- Jack's left hand clenched reflexively -- and the thickness of a knife-edge. Jack fought back a wince, and glanced at Sparrow, who was staring at the things with horrified fascination.

"Subcutaneous, eh?" said Sparrow, rather faintly.

"Yes," said Enoch with brutal indifference. "Now, which of you'll be first?"

Sparrow tilted his head back, regarding Enoch Root coolly. "Were you proposing, Mr Root," he said, "to administer the, ah, _Treatment_ in person?"

"I --"

"Done it before?" interpolated Jack, by no means eager to be a Subject in this particular Experiment.

"Of course not," said Enoch testily. "The Chibcha are not noted for their generosity in handing out this recipe: otherwise, half of Spain would be camped at their door."

"If you haven't actually _performed_ the administering," said Sparrow, "then, to tell you the truth, I'd just as soon do it myself." He slid a sly, wicked look at Jack. "Or have my good friend here, Mr Jack Shaftoe, 'minister it to me."

 

Jack swallowed, and nodded. "An you'll do the same for me," he said. "C'mon, Enoch, how hard can it be?"

"If you prefer," said Enoch thinly. "Though, Jack, I'm sure I need not warn you of the perils of a double dose, eh?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "I'm not Pieter Spitaels, Enoch -- did you have a nice chat with him, by the way? -- an' I've no intention of performing this particular treatment any more often than necessary. Now, just describe to me again the _location_ of the incision --"

"Incisions, plural," said Enoch. Was that a smile lurking in his beard? Jack curbed an instinctive desire to wipe it away, and bared his teeth in return. "Pray stand up, Mr Shaftoe, and I'll show you."

Jack shot a look at Sparrow, who was managing a fair impression of polite interest. He stood, and kept still as Enoch came close to him, and set his hand on the flat muscle of Jack's abdomen, and prodded. "Just _there_ ," he said. "You'll find it easier to make the incision _here_ \--" Jack winced, "and push _this_ way."

"Right," said Jack manfully. "Well. We'll, er, we'll let you know. If there's any difficulties." Thinking, _if Jack Sparrow sets his hand on me so, mayhap I'll be distracted enough to endure this business_.

"Use this," said Enoch, producing a small sharp knife, robustly sheathed, from somewhere inside his coat. "And clean it --"

"Before and after, aye," said Jack impatiently. He wanted it done and over: he wanted, too, to be alone with Jack Sparrow.

"Call if you need me," said Enoch cheerfully. "Good luck." And he was gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

"Well," said Jack, looking at Sparrow. "D'you want to go first? Or would it be easier if I showed you how little it hurt, eh?"

"Best get that garment off you," said Jack Sparrow, staring at Jack's groin with a gaze that belied the tea he'd consumed. "So I can see properly, you know."

Jack smirked, and undid his breeches, and stepped out of them. The tea was not, it transpired, having much of an effect on Jack's corpus, either. Sparrow looked at him hungrily, and licked his lips.

"Have we time," he enquired, "for a little more Experimental Provocation?"

"You're being quite provocative enough, thank you kindly," said Jack, clenching his fists against the desire to stroke his stirring prick to full readiness. "Let's leave that for later, eh? Something to look forward to, after."

"After," agreed Sparrow. "Well."

"Well," said Jack. And then, Imp-led, "Get on with it, then."

Sparrow grinned sharp and nasty: he drew Enoch's little knife from its leather sheath, and laid it on the table while he found tinder and flint and lit the lanthorn.

"It ain't dark," objected Jack, who'd set himself to endure this necessary torture, and was impatient of delay.

"I'm cleaning it, aren't I?" Sparrow passed the blade through the flame, then held it one-handed, wrestling his flask from his coat. "Reach me a cup, eh?"

" _I'm_ the one who's being _operated_ upon," complained Jack, feeling ridiculous as he stretched up, half-naked, to retrieve a rather sticky-looking beaker from the shelf.

Sparrow took it from him, nodding thanks, and half-filled it with rum; dipped the blade -- still hot enough to sizzle -- and then took a swig. "C'mere," he said, and smiled all broad and fierce.

* * *

Oh, the sight of Jack Shaftoe, close enough to touch: close enough that Jack's breath stirred the bronze curls at his groin, and sent a visible surge through his veins. Jack had to close his eyes for a moment, to resist the instinctual desire to lean forward, just _so_ , and set his lips ...

Funny, that. Never before had he felt the need to quell any such urges -- even in the direst extremity of his illness, when a moment's lust had sent fiery pangs through his own anatomy -- but he'd wager it would never've been so easy. Perhaps that damned tea was working, after all. Or perhaps the need to slice through that soft, pale skin, just in from the swell of Shaftoe's hip-bone; to cut, all steady --

" _Will_ you get on with it?" demanded Shaftoe, exasperated. "Or, if you don't care for the sight of blood, I'm sure I _ow_!"

"Keep still," said Jack, one hand holding Shaftoe in a grip that'd layer bruises over the reddened marks from, ooh, last night. He drew the knife down, careful as might be, trying not to press too hard: there was a vein close under the skin, and Jack's mind presented that fountain of blood that'd sprung from Bill Turner's neck the other day. Careful, careful, for this was Jack Shaftoe, audibly grinding his teeth -- Jack dared not look at him, for fear he'd lose his nerve and not cut deep _enough_ \-- and trembling like a taut rope under Jack's hand.

"Is that enough?" he said.

"Dunno," said Shaftoe, his voice rather higher-pitched than usual. "You need to lift up the skin, a bit."

Jack bit his tongue. He got the point of the knife in the little cut, and moved it around tentatively, watching the shape of the thin blade pushing under Shaftoe's skin. Shaftoe was breathing through his teeth now, but he did not cry out: which was a shame, because it meant Jack wouldn't be able to, either, no matter how it hurt.

"Like that?" he enquired. "Shall I ..." He nodded at the spills.

"Stick it in, Jack." A chuff of laughter. "Stick it in: you know you want to."

"If I'd known you were this easy," said Jack. He left the knife, point-down, in the beaker of rum, and picked up one of the spills. "Which way?"

"Point it inward," said Jack Shaftoe, all stoic. Jack longed to lavish delights on him, to reward that stoicism with the gasping rapture it deserved. But there was work to be done. He inserted one point of the wood in that red-beaded incision, angling it t'wards Shaftoe's (now distinctly limp) cock.

"Up a bit," gritted Shaftoe. "Aye, there."

Jack pushed, and Shaftoe hissed at the feel of it: the wood would not move for a long moment, and Jack was afraid that he'd cut too deep, done it wrong ... But no: there, along the secret inside of Jack Shaftoe's skin, the oily wood slid in.

"All the way," said Shaftoe, sounding rather strangled.

Jack took him at his word, and pushed until only a nail's-breadth of wood protruded from the sticky cut.

"There," he announced, and dared at last to look up at Jack Shaftoe's face. He'd bitten his lower lip 'til it was full and red -- utterly kissable -- and there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Jack yearned to lick it off, and half-rose.

"Do the other one," said Shaftoe thickly, with a fierce and feral smile. "Do the other, Jack: and then I'll do you."

Jack had the trick of it now, and though he did not hurry -- for too much, everything, depended on this treatment and its success -- 'twas quickly done. Shaftoe stood there in front of him, breathing hard, an odd triumphant look on his face. There was blood welling around those two obscene dark protrusions, but not very much blood. Jack gave in to one of his lesser desires: took a mouthful of rum straight from the flask, and leaned forward to lick the wounds clean. His beard-braids brushed against Shaftoe's quiescent cock, and Jack was oddly disappointed not to elicit the slightest twitch: but 'twas only to be expected, really, from a man who'd just had two great lumps of wood stuck into him.

Shaftoe's blood was hot and salty against Jack's tongue, and his breath, somewhere above, came in gusts: he set his hand on Jack's head, just like ... Jack licked, slow and gentle, and Shaftoe laughed.

"Trying to put it off?" he jibed. "It ain't so bad, Jack, really. But you'd better have some rum first -- or, have we any laudanum? -- for I don't s'pose you've the _fortitude_ \--"

Jack leapt to his feet and began to wrestle with his second-best sash. "Like that, is it, Mr Shaftoe?" he said. "Well, if a mere _Vagabond_ \--"

"I'll have you know there's nothing _mere_ about a man who stands and lets his, his _paramour_ \--"

" _Paramour!_ " cried Jack, letting his trousers drop and standing naked (though, peculiarly, unerect) before Shaftoe. "Is _that_ what I am to you?"

"Nay, you're --" began Shaftoe, settling himself on the chair and reaching for the knife. "Oh, I'd tell you, Jack," he said, all low and warm, "but you'd never -- oh, _do_ hold still."

Jack hissed at the fiery sting of the knife: Shaftoe took no notice, but cut, careful and quick, and next slid the blade _in_ , under the skin.

"Prenticed to a butcher, were you, Mr Shaftoe?" said Jack, watching with queasy fascination as Shaftoe set the knife aside and took up a sliver of wood.

"Just like skinning a rabbit," said Shaftoe blithely. He pushed the wood in swift and hard, and Jack's teeth nearly met in his lip: but 'twas done. "I wonder," Shaftoe went on, taking up the knife again, "how this compares to, ooh, shoving a great chunk of _gold_ through your chest, eh? Like Martingale's mate."

"Maybe we can try that _later_ ," managed Jack, sniffing: his eyes were watering with the sting of the second cut.

"Well, if you're so keen," said Shaftoe. "Or perhaps you'd prefer it ... _here_." And his free hand dropped from Jack's hip -- all stinging with sweat where he'd somehow acquired a line of scratched -- to his indifferent prick.

Jack swore, and his blood performed new and interesting manouevres as the pain of the twin cuts vied with the undeniable, though peculiarly distant, pleasure of Shaftoe's sure touch. The pain won, though 'twas somewhat transmuted: a shiver of something that was not quite arousal quivered up Jack's spine and made him gasp as Shaftoe, cool and competent as any physician (and more so than most) selected a final splinter of wood and introduced it deftly into the seeping cut on Jack's hip.

Shaftoe exhaled slowly, and Jack sighed too.

"All done," said Shaftoe. "How does it feel?"

"You _know_ how it feels," said Jack testily. "Like an itch; like a leech; like something I'd rather be rid of."

"We c'n take 'em out again, in a while," said Shaftoe, his own hand drifting south to touch the slight, dark intrusion under his own skin. "An' they'll take it, take the Pox, with 'em."

"How long?" demanded Jack, just as though he hadn't got Enoch's recital by heart.

"A week, at most," said Shaftoe. "A week, and then ..."

Somewhere a bell sounded, and the deck above their heads reverberated with the sound of a number of men going -- not especially hastily -- to their work. Jack took advantage of this minor distraction to lower himself (not without some discomfort) until he was sitting straddling Shaftoe's bare thighs.

"Are you Provoking me again?" enquired Shaftoe, propping his forearms on Jack's shoulders and smiling slow, blinking slow, at him.

Jack glanced down. "Not noticeably, Mr Shaftoe."

Shaftoe looked disappointed. "Perhaps a kiss?" he offered.

"Aye," said Jack. "I should think we can manage that, at least." He leaned forward, slowslowslow, and tried not to notice the disagreeable movement of the wood as his skin flexed around it.

Jack Shaftoe's kiss proved an excellent antidote to that creeping ache. His lips were full, and no doubt as tender as Jack's, and he hummed happily into the kiss, tongue languidly exploring Jack's mouth, hands sliding slow and soothing over the curve of Jack's spine. It was a delicious kiss, lazy and sweet as a long afternoon, and Jack did not want it to end: he wound his arms 'round Shaftoe's neck, pushed his hands up into that unruly yellow hair, and kissed as though there was nowhere else he should be.


	42. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Two

  


Two days, it’d been; two days of bright skies, fair winds, full sails, and plenty of lazing around, in between brief bouts of what passed for hard work on board a pirate ship when there were no incipient climatic disasters or belligerent fellow vessels to deal with. Two days, and two nights; and they were driving Jack Shaftoe to drink. Never mind Enoch Root, all grim and old womanish, carping on about keeping the mind and body healthy during the cure. No man could endure what Jack was being asked to endure, and not resort to seeking a little oblivion.

Bad enough, surely, that the honeyed, blood-thumping pleasures of Jack Sparrow’s body were denied to him. Worse, that he was subjected to this horrid tincture that must surely be poisoning some deep and necessary part of him, that it could leave him unmoved by all those luscious thoughts, with no corresponding rise in his flesh. But worst of all? _Worst_?

Worst was that for two days and two nights, since they’d inserted those needly scraps into one another, since they’d been able to kiss and hold with no subsequent fire in their loins, Jack Sparrow’d been little more than a ghost at the edge of Jack’s vision. Disappearing, as soon as he felt Jack’s gaze upon him; working, working, oh always working, the most captainly captain on the Spanish Main; late to bed, and rising before Jack knew it for morning. Barely there. As if, fleshly lusts abated, his taste for Jack Shaftoe had evaporated like morning mist on a still sea.

In light of which unpalatable situation, Jack’d made his way down to the galley, where Jamie Martingale was still helping out poor Stone (not at all popular as ship’s cook, despite what he protested were his best efforts) and begged a bottle or three. ‘Twas almost easy, now, to be around the lad. For the way he looked at Jack, now, was full of simple sunshine, and none of that troubling moon-eyed sighing that Jack’d been subjected to, previous to Will’s presence. Saved by a sodomite Indian! That was one for the books.

Still, Jack had to ‘ppreciate it; and when he took his acquisitions up on deck, and saw Will sitting there alone, subject of the odd sideways glance but not a single friendly overture, it didn’t seem quite right to leave the poor fellow there all lone and lorn.

“Will, mate! Fancy a drink? Jamie’s still busy with the pots and pans. Right little scrubber, you might say. Though of course I wouldn’t.” He proffered a bottle.

Will’s handsome face was inscrutable as he squinted up at Jack, outlined against an outrageously lurid sunset. But he took the bottle, and nodded his thanks. He wore loose breeches now, Jack Sparrow having declared that the scraps of leather which Will and Djagdao generously termed clothing were a threat to the sanity of some members of his company; and Martingale had braided Will’s long black hair, pulling it tight back off his face. It gave him a veneer of civilisation, at least. Even if Jack knew what was _really_ lurking under those trowsers.

The rum was welcome, oh yes, most welcome. Jack took a long drag, and sat himself beside the Indian, down in the lee of the gunwale, wincing a little as the spills of wood ‘neath his skin reminded him of their presence.

“Settling in all right, then?” he asked conversationally.

Will shrugged. “This is a strange place,” he said, and scowled sourly as he drank from his bottle. Jack, having partaken of Chibcha brews and presuming that the Warao had similar tastes, could empathise with the foreignness of it.

“Not sorry you came, are you?”

“If I had stayed, I would be dead,” said Will, his voice all flat.

“Right. Well. Better discombobulated than disincorporated, eh, haha,” said Jack, failing to accurately assess Will’s grasp of English, and thereby earning a blank look.

“Anyway,” he tried again, “Seems you’re getting on fine with young Jamie. Good lad, that.”

Finally, the fellow cracked a smile, a proper smile, all cheekbones and crinkled up eyes. “Jamie is… a man who gives much of himself,” he agreed, and gave Jack a sly look. “As you know.”

Jack was shamefully sure that under other circumstances—i.e., ones in which he was not drugged up to the eyeballs with a native anaphrodisiac and stuck full of sticks of wood—he would have found the image which sprang to mind a distinctly rousing one. As it was he merely nodded, and noted, poker-faced, “As are you.”

Will made a snorting noise into his rum.

“Belay that!” shouted Jack Sparrow, distantly, from the quarterdeck. Jack’s gaze was unwillingly hauled that way by the mere sound of his voice. Sparrow, gazing up t’ward the maintop and gesticulating wildly, was gilded in the last of the light, and Jack appreciated (in a cool and detached way) the beauty of him; but that in itself, and the distance that lay between that calm sentiment, and those other, far more visceral, opinions which Jack was sure he recalled, was painful to him. He looked away.

“The Captain works hard,” said Will, “and long. Long into the night.” He did not look at Jack as he said it.

Jack nodded. “He does.” It came out curt, and a trifle petulant. But what else was he supposed to feel? It hurt, foolishly, to have to take himself off to their bed alone; to wake to find Sparrow lying there atop the sheets, still dressed, and snoring gently. Instead of all warm and bare and twisted in Jack’s arms. He drank, deep.

“How goes your cure?”

“Oh. You know about that, do you?”

“Most on board do,” said Will placidly. “But I know more than most about what you are experiencing. Though I have never seen it for myself. Will you show me, Jack? It is one of their Mysteries; I should like to see.”

“What, the…?” said Jack, gesturing t’ward his crotch, and the Indian nodded, all solemn.

Jack considered this, taking another swig of rum, and appreciating its burn in his belly. He hadn’t eaten much, today; could feel the alcohol in a warm lassitude in his limbs. Why not? Enoch’d had a look. Nothing much to it, now. Just raw red lips of flesh, swelling around a black nub of wood. The wood worked its way out, just a little, every night as Jack slept; every morning, he had to push it back in. Which hurt. But hell, this fellow knew about _hurt_ ; Jack still could not dislodge the image of that metal. That gold, winking dully there, somewhere, somehow, attached to—

“I’ll show you mine,” he said suddenly, surprising himself, “If you’ll show me yours.”

Will looked confused. “I have no—” he began, and then read Jack’s true meaning in the vivid flush of red that’d poured across his face and throat. “Oh,” he said, and, equably, “As you wish.”

“”Tain’t that I _wish_ ,” protested Jack. “It’s just… interesting, is all.” Rather than get into a discussion of the matter, he lurched up on his knees, hauling his shirt out of the way, and undoing a few buttons on his breeches; pushing them down, low, though he made some effort to protect the worst of his modesty, cupping a handful of fabric over his cock. “There,” he said.

Will leant forward, peering intently in the gathering dark. He put out a hand, and (to Jack’s surprise) laid two fingertips over the slim bulge of wood. “Hot,” he noted dispassionately, undoing his own trousers with his other hand, and reaching inside, and oh Jack tried not to stare, but...

“Here!” came a voice behind them, and Jack turned awkwardly; Will glanced up, but did not move his hand. Martingale it was, glaring. “What're you _doing_?” he demanded. Jack had to admit that it wasn’t the best circumstance in which to come upon your current and previous infatuations, kneeling in the half dark with opened breeches and—yes, well. He batted Will’s hand away and the Indian started to do up his buttons. Curse Martingale’s timing. Jack hadn’t seen a damn thing.

“Just showing your mate here the cure,” he said, and then, in a burst of inspiration, “Want to see?”

Irritation warred briefly with fascination on Jamie Martingale’s mobile face, but Jack’d known already which would win; and next second Jamie was all crouched down, wincing at the sight of it, peering close in the failing light, and asking if he could touch… “All right,” said Jack, perfectly unmoved by Jamie’s cool fingertips on the soft flesh of his hip, and thinking that old Enoch’s potion might have some point to it after all.

“That’s astonishing,” breathed Martingale. “Just that, an’ it’ll cure you?”

“Not just that,” Jack bragged, “There’s another on the other side: had to do it twice, you know.” And he popped some more buttons, and demonstrated.

“Mr Shaftoe! I had no idea you had such exhibitionist tendencies.”

Jack jumped a little at Sparrow’s voice. Damn, the man had a talent for creeping up. Embarrassed to be caught so, and still sulking over being ignored so roundly for so long, he was tempted to retort that _some_ people still found him interesting, and had just opened his mouth to do so when Sparrow went on, “But if you’re not too busy sharing your privities with my crew, perhaps you’d spare me a few moments in my cabin?”

*

He did not wait for Jack Shaftoe’s answer, but turned and went below. Too hard, it was, to watch Jamie Martingale’s fingers there on Shaftoe’s swollen flesh, and see the cool disregard that Shaftoe had for it. The disregard he now had for touch, for any touch; for Jack’s own, should he care to bestow it. Which, God rot it, he didn’t particularly. Not like… before.

He’d barely made it below, barely lit the lanthorn, when Shaftoe strode in, half-empty bottle in hand. “What?” he demanded, all brusque belligerence.

“How are you feeling?” Jack enquired calmly.

“Fine. Same as before. Is it time for our dose, is it?”

“I suppose so,” said Jack. Not wanting to think about it. “Later, maybe.”

“Well, if it’s not that, what do you want?”

“Must I want something? Can we not just… just…” Jack sat on his sea-chest, and waved a hand around, vaguely.

“Just what?”

“Why are you so fucking evil-tempered tonight?” It burst out of Jack before he could give it a moment’s consideration. Shaftoe just glared at him. “What’s wrong with my seeking your comp’ny, all of a sudden?” Jack went on.

“What, the comp’ny of an evil-tempered exhibitionist, you mean?”

This was an inescapably amusing image, and Jack could not suppress a giggle. Shaftoe gave a small, wry smile then, and sat himself down on the edge of the cot, passing Jack the bottle of rum.

“You haven’t exactly sought my company the last few days,” Shaftoe said. “Quite the reverse, an independent observer might think.”

Jack gave a wary nod of acknowledgement. “Well,” he said, “things ain’t been… the same, the last few days, have they?”

Not the same at all. That cool calm mist that lay over his feelings; the sensible, logical self that had overtaken his late and bitterly lamented passions. Dreadful, it was, vile; and being near Jack Shaftoe made it worse. Because Jack recalled what he had felt; recalled it, even if he could not reconstitute it.

“No they fucking haven’t been,” said Shaftoe, all truculent; and Jack suddenly saw all their shared fears, clear as day.

“But they will be the same again,” he said fiercely. “When we stop taking this. When we’re well. Oh, Christ, Jack, it’ll all come back. Won’t it?”

And suddenly Jack Shaftoe’d abandoned his anger, and was on his knees before Jack, his arms around him, his head on Jack’s lap. “It will,” he was saying, and, “It must,” and then, looking up at Jack with a strange desperation, “I’ll stop taking it now, Jack, today, if I have to; if it’ll bring me back your comp’ny.”

“What? No!” said Jack. “We’ve got to finish it.”

“But I can’t stand it!”

“Jesus, Jack, does fucking mean that much? A week, no more, ‘tis nothing!”

“This ain’t nothing! It ain’t nothing to be invisible to you, to have you scout round me and avoid me and not speak with me!”

“But,” said Jack, and realised what he had done.

“I… I thought it best,” he said, feebly. “Best to try to stay away from you, Jack; best not to be reminded of, of what was, and ain’t right now; thought you’d prefer it that way.”

Jack Shaftoe’s face, then, o then: relief, and frustration, and the fiercest affection. “You’re a fucking idiot, Jack Sparrow. I mean, yes, it’s foul, not to be able to, to show you with every part of me how I feel. An’ even fouler not to feel it all, the way I did. But don’t you think I want the rest of you, too? Your smile, and your thoughts, and your laughter, and your embrace? Yes, I miss your cock, I miss your gorgeous arse, but Christ’s sake, Jack; there’s more to it than that, and I don’t see why I have to be deprived of all of you, just because we can’t fuck.”

“Oh,” said Jack, utterly liquefied. And then, realising the necessity of reciprocation, “You've the right of it; I was foolish to stay away from you so, and I swear to you, I’ve missed all that too. Missed just talking with you, Jack, and hearing your ‘pinions, and, and jokes, and all those fuckin’ great lies you tell about your vagabond life.”

“Those are _historically accurate anecdotes_ ,” said Shaftoe with a grin.

“I wouldn’t dream of disputing it, if you say so,” said Jack, and he stroked Shaftoe’s hair out of his eyes, the rough gold of it all warm against his palm. “I'm sorry, Jack, to've been such an idjit; and if I were to ‘rrange for a private supper here, for the two of us, and delivery of our Medications; would you care to spend an evening here, just thee and me, just talking? Even though there’s no prospect of any more concupiscent entertainment to be had?”

“I should like that a great deal,” said Shaftoe, with uncharacteristic gravity. “As long as—having eaten our fill, and drunk our potions like good children—you would consider taking to bed, together, your skin ’gainst mine, just for the pleasure that lies in that, and nothing more.”

“And I might well like _that_ a great deal,” Jack agreed.

And found, as he lay there in the warm secret cocoon of their blankets, plastered skin-to-skin with Jack Shaftoe, whose broad hand wandered warmly over Jack’s back as he told some unlikely tale of an actress, a monkey, and a sack of oranges, that he liked it more than he would have considered either probable or possible. Even though he knew that, once, there had been so very much more.


	43. A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Three

  
  
How strange, and yet how unexpectedly delightful, to wake in Jack Sparrow's cool chaste embrace and savour every inch of their closeness for the simple fact that it was _Sparrow_ whose limbs were twined about Jack's own. How strange to wake from a confused dream of lust, of heat and curve and hardness, and feel _relieved_ to be free of it: free instead to put his hands on Jack Sparrow's hip, just there above the dark protrusion of that woody sliver, and kiss him slow and sweet and gentle for the sheer pleasure of kissing.

Jack sighed gustily, and grinned as Sparrow cracked open one eye to peer at him.

"Jus' thinking," he said, "how very hard it is, sometimes, to be me."

"Hard?" exclaimed Sparrow, in feigned alarm, his warm hand creeping down to Jack's groin. "Nah, mate, in your dreams: that is, the Cure still seems to be having its accustomed Effect. Or lack of it, I should say."

"How many more days?" demanded Jack, not because he had not kept meticulous count of 'em, but because he wanted to see Jack Sparrow's face brighten.

"Perhaps," said Sparrow, rolling onto his back and setting a proprietary hand on Jack's waist, "p'rhaps we should consider asking for some _more_ , eh? Think how much more we'd achieve, without all that tedious _mmmmh_."

Jack kissed Sparrow long and slow, sucking on his tongue, perversely enjoying the way that the sensation remained simply what it was, and did not inflame other, livelier (though at present quiescent) parts of his anatomy: he could not avoid listening to his Impish companion, which languished unseen on the pillow next to Sparrow's head, bemoaning the lack of opportunities for badness. _O an' JackmyJack jus' one more livelong day, an' one more night, an' then you've days and nights to make up, all hot and gaspy and ooh, when Sparrowjack's well again, maybe won't take no f'r answer, eh? Mayhap he'll take and claim and make you Jack, make you all his as he's all yourn ..._

Oh, 'twas entertaining, in the way that a fragment of a play glimpsed through an open window might be entertaining: for Jack seemed to have forgotten the Plot, as it were, the long slow Progression that had played out over that month since they'd last set foot on Saint Lucia. 'Twas all like a distant murmur to him, a tale told by a lunatic: now, as he lay stretched out upon Jack Sparrow, feeling the warm writhe of him and the stinging heat where Sparrow's hip brushed the spills in Jack's flesh, the little jab where the wood poked out of Sparrow's delicate skin -- Jack remembered the savour of it, and the throbbing warmth beneath his tongue -- this was all he wanted, and he revelled in the lack of haste. Always before it seemed that they'd been rushing to some higher (nay, _lower_ , thought Jack with a smirk, not breaking the kiss) goal: but this was simple pleasure, and though he could not deny that he was looking forward to the moment when his blood raged and surged again at mere sight of Jack Sparrow, there was --

"Land ho!" came the shrill, distant cry of Joe Henry, banished, with Sparrow's spyglass, to the crow's nest as punishment for some wickedness or other: and Sparrow's eyes shot open. He bit at Jack's lip, and pushed him away, and sat up.

"Saint Lucia?" enquired Jack.

"Should be," said Sparrow, reaching for his clothes. (Another advantage, thought Jack: none of their usual slapdash approach to undressing, but two grubby shirts, two disreputable pairs of breeches, all neat on the chair.) "We're past Grenada, that was yesterday afternoon: and we've had a fine southerly for sailing."

Jack grunted, having noted no more than a pleasing smoothness to the _Black Pearl_ 's progress as she carried them both, cradled together in one bed, over the ocean t'wards Saint Lucia, the gold, and incidentally the completion of the Cure.

"Make yourself decent, Mr Shaftoe," Sparrow instructed, tossing Jack's clothes onto the bed. "You're the man who knows most about what's hidden on that reef: we'll be wanting you at our council."

 

Jack Shaftoe'd mocked the rigorous democracy of the _Black Pearl_ when first he came aboard: now it seemed natural and right to him that a group of the more experienced and mature individuals -- no man in his right mind would term them 'officers', but they were the closest approximation to that role in this piratical Crew -- should meet to discuss and determine the company's major offensives. With rum, of course, and (at least on the _Pearl_ ) with a marked cheerfulness.

"Whatever's down in that hole had Jack, I mean _Captain Sparrow_ , by the neck," he explained again. "I couldn't shift it, save by taking it apart with my knife: and its friends are down there, waiting for revenge." (Jack doubted this, but it seemed an effective argument.) "Our best bet's to tip a barrel or two of Fire down there, stand back, and wait for the pieces to float up. _Then_ we send someone down for the gold."

"Might not even _be_ any gold," muttered Bill Turner, clearly quite recovered now from his adventures in the jungle, and twice as disputational as before.

Jack rolled his eyes.

" _Captain_ Turner," said Jack Sparrow, leaning forward over the table, "I seem to recall that we examined this plan in full -- nay, exhaustive -- detail on our departure from Port Royal. And again more recently." His voice was light, but Jack saw Bootstrap flush at this reminder of his mutinous behaviour.

Sparrow glanced around the table, fixing each man (Bootstrap, Enoch, Jack himself, Grey, West and Bull) with a brief, dark look, as though assuring himself of their attention. Their support, thought Jack.

"Mr Shaftoe, here -- and Mr Root, too, if he pleases: I'd be grateful for your thoughts, Enoch -- shall arrange the _Alchemickal_ elements of the operation, and we'll send Carter, or some other fellow, down with a rope, and haul out that damned treasure. And, yes, it may turn up empty: but we'll have tried, and it'll be done with. And," Sparrow turned his head to look at Jack Shaftoe, and smiled like a promise, "there'll be no _Furia_ , no Don Esteban, there to get in our way. Easy as plucking a fruit from the tree."

* * *

The brig was dark and dank, and its atmosphere not improved by what Pieter Spitaels had no difficulty in identifying as the sweet, insidious odour of naphtha, filtering up (along with less salubrious reeks) from the furthest recesses of the ship's hold. Had he not lived with that ethereal reminder, himself, after removing the remaining hogsheads from old VandenVoort's cellar? Had he not, poor foolish creature that he'd been, _invited_ himself on this hellish voyage in the sincere hope of learning more of that substance's peculiar properties, and of its use in the manufacture of the Fire of the Ancients?

Locked away down here like some forgotten captive -- though he was brought nasty stews and gruels, and clean water, from time to time -- Pieter had a great deal of time to brood upon his own misfortunes, and on how they might be remedied. How fine it would be, to emerge blinking and pale and weak from his imprisonment, and quell that infamous Shaftoe with a well-reasoned argument and an Alchemickal Solution -- though Pieter had no very clear idea of any _Problem_ that might need solving -- which, backed up by the superior knowledge (not to mention civility) of Enoch Root, would prove him worthy, would save him from whatever unpleasantness Jack Shaftoe and his catamite had in store for Pieter.

"Nearly there, mate!" came a cry from the hatch above, and Pieter blinked against the sudden, hurtful light.

It was the boy, Joe they called him, and though he was thoughtlessly rude and saucy t'wards Pieter, he had shown no especial spite. And he was the only visitor that Pieter had, these days, Enoch the Red having shown no desire to further their professional acquaintance. So Joe it must be.

"Where are we?" croaked Pieter, blinking.

"Saint Lucia, mate," said Joe cheerily, shoving a bowl and a jug through the hatch in the door and turning to go.

"Wait!" cried Pieter, forcing the words out as best he could past the parched dryness of his throat.

Joe turned his head and gave Pieter an impatient look. "What is it?" he demanded. "I'm needed, up on deck."

"Just tell me," said Pieter, struggling for clarity after the long days with no conversation at all, "what your captain's mission is, on this island: what --"

"Oh, that's no secret," said Joe, grinning. "We're to get gold out of the rock."

"But, but ..."

"'Twas Mr Shaftoe's idea, when we were here last time," said Joe, and his grin seemed somehow sharper. "I --"

There was an indistinct cry from the deck above, and Joe's head shot round. "Got to go," he said. "Maybe they'll let you ashore." And the hatch clicked shut once more, leaving Pieter Spitaels alone in the dank, tenebrous space, twitching with wild surmise at the _nature_ of perfidious Jack Shaftoe's best-kept secret.

* * *

"Low tide just around dawn -- hmm, don't care overmuch for that -- or an hour before sunset," said Jack. "Neither of which, I'm afraid, will do much for the Dramatickal Presentation, Mr Shaftoe: or have you and Enoch found a way to make fire burn as brightly by day, as by night? ... Jack, are you listening?"

"Sorry, mate," said Jack Shaftoe, clearly not in the least repentant. "I'm just savouring my tea," he toasted Jack with the carved wooden cup, "what with this being, as I'm sure you recall, the _final_ evening on which I'll partake of its charming blend of flavours -- rotten leaves, stagnant water and dried worms."

"'Tis not so very bad," remonstrated Jack, knocking his back in one scalding draught: true, it burnt, but that was better than _tasting_ the stuff. "But I can't say I'll miss it, Jack." And he stared hard at Jack Shaftoe, mustering those vestiges of desire still at his command, until Shaftoe laughed aloud and advised him to save himself for tomorrow night.

"The last dose is tomorrow _morning_ ," said Jack, scratching his hip, where the dark sliver of wood -- rather paler now, he thought, though perhaps that was some trick of the lanthorn-light -- lay beneath the skin. "And if we're not to go ashore, or rather a-reef, 'til near sunset, we'll have all day to conduct a review of those Experimental Provocations."

Shaftoe leaned back on his elbows on the bed, laughing at Jack. The position stretched his clothes tight over the contours of his body, and Jack vowed to treasure the cool interest of this moment, for purposes of comparison with the heated -- and, he hoped, entirely painless -- ardour that he confidently expected to assail him within the next twenty-four hours.

"Jack?" said Shaftoe, watching him.

"Mmm?"

"What if, you know, it doesn't --"

"Why in hell's name _shouldn't_ it?" demanded Jack. "Don't you feel any different?"

Shaftoe's gaze lost its focus: he was obviously considering this question. "I do," he conceded at last, "but p'rhaps, Jack, p'rhaps that's just the, the lack of ..." Was that a blush? Jack grinned, which made Shaftoe blush more; stood, and swayed over to the bed, and dropped down next to Jack Shaftoe. Oh, he wanted that old closeness, that old fire and burn; but the warmth of Shaftoe's skin, and of his smile, was not to be complained of. He propped his chin on Shaftoe's shoulder.

"'member when we were here before?" he murmured.

"Aye," said Shaftoe, chuckling. "You was three-quarters drowned, and I narrowly escaped being blown to kingdom come by a Spanish ball."

"We nailed Don Esteban," Jack reminded him.

"We nailed Don Fucking Esteban," said Shaftoe, eyes flashing. "An' ooh, Jack, 'member when you came back, all bloody and like to die, and your poor arm: and Enoch's magickal medicine, o that was a fine thing." He was grinning now. "And the _after-effects_ , Jack, oh, I do remember those."

The look on Jack Shaftoe's face would've incited a statue, and Jack was not made of stone: he leaned over and kissed Shaftoe, warm and tender, and longed most earnestly for a single spark of the warm Bacchanalian frenzy he'd felt that night.

"Shame _this_ stuff doesn't have any int'resting effects," said Shaftoe, flicking a glance at their empty cups.

"Apart from getting _cured_ , that is," said Jack happily. "Oh, Mr Shaftoe, the things I shall do to you, once we're cured: once the tea's all gone, and the wood's drawn out and the sickness with it, and ..."

"And the gold," Shaftoe reminded him, with Billish pragmatism.

"The gold," said Jack, waving a hand dismissively. "You, Jack: you're more to me than gold."

Oh, the bitter-sweet tang of that kiss in his blood, brushing gently 'gainst his heart: oh, the breathless expectancy of whole and hale Jack Shaftoe in his arms, as soon as ever the Cure had been completed and the calming effects of the tea had faded from his blood, and Shaftoe's!

Until then, though, just this: Jack Shaftoe's kiss, Jack Shaftoe's heartbeat, like promises.


	44. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Four

  


Jack Sparrow’s inner monologue had always been a loquacious thing. Verbose, and creative, and frequently poetic: he enjoyed its company quite mightily.

Today, however, it seemed to’ve been possessed by the spirit of one of those Alchemists lurking around his ship. It had taken on an unusually scientific bent. This had of course been exacerbated by the running joke (becoming steadily less amusing) between himself and Jack Shaftoe: the series of Experimental Provocations which they had been inflicting on one another, ever since that morning’s final dose of the Chibcha’s lust-quelling tea.

_Provocation The First: Straight after Breakfast_ , reminisced Jack’s inner voice (in a rather didactic tone that it had surely adopted from Mr Root) as his outer self lurked in the mephitic darkness of the hold, overseeing the lads as they manhandled a barrel of naphtha, and ignoring their vociferous complaints.

*

**Provocation The First: Straight after Breakfast.**

**Hypothesis:** That half an hour is probably not a sufficient delay and we are wasting our time. Albeit rather pleasantly.

**Subject:** Who else, but the delightful Mr Jack Shaftoe?

**Environment, Location, and/or Situation:** Mr Jack Shaftoe is attempting to leave the cabin which he shares with the Experimenter, or, as he shall hereafter be referred to, the _Provocateur_. He has made it nearly as far as the door.

**Methodology:** The Provocateur interrupts the passage of the Subject by inserting himself between the Subject and the Doorway.

_Subject_ : Stop arsing about, Jack, we’ve got a lot to get ready today.  
 _Provocateur_ : One mustn’t let a heavy schedule deter one from the path of Enlightenment, Mr Shaftoe.  
 _Subject_ : And what exactly are you going to Enlighten me about? And why must my trowsers be interfered with during said Enlightenment?

(The Provocateur slips a hand into the Subject’s nether garments, careful to avoid all Surgical Sites, and finds a curve of the Subject’s hip which fits the Provocateur’s hand so perfectly that he can’t help but sigh.)

_Provocateur_ : Give us a kiss, ‘fore you go, Jack.

(The Subject smiles. The Provocateur is so taken by this expression that he fears he may prefer it to the requested osculation. This fear is proven ungrounded. The Provocateur notes a definite pleasure to be taken from the taste, smell, texture, and sound of the Subject’s mouth. However, he also notes that it lacks several additional layers of pleasure that he recalls from The Good Old Days.)

_Provocateur_ : Still nothing, then.  
 _Subject_ : Give it a while, you greedy bastard.

**Result:** Hypothesis confirmed.

*

“Give us a hand, Captain! This thing weighs a fuckin’ ton!”

Jack, hauled back from what Bill usually referred to as “away with the bloody faeries again,” heaved a long-suffering sigh and did as requested.

The four of them manhandled the stinking hogshead up the companionway, and out into the sunshine, where the Alchemists, their equipment (a cauldron, several large pieces of wood, a lot of oilcloth, and a ladle) and their other ingredients (two smaller barrels and, damnit, two bottles of perfectly good rum) awaited. Shaftoe and Root had been joined, at Shaftoe’s insistence, by Pieter Spitaels, pastier than ever after his extended stay in the brig, his hands cuffed before him and an irritable look on his face.

“Cheer up, Mr Spitaels,” Jack exhorted. “This is what you came for, ain’t it? To see for yourself how Greek Fire’s made?”

“Mr Shaftoe has shown himself nothing but a charlatan and a ruffian to date,” said Spitaels testily, “and I heartily doubt his ability to disprove either now.”

Jack glanced over at Shaftoe, half expecting (and half hoping for) a Very Bad Reaction to this rudeness; but Shaftoe, his hair tied back and all bright in the sunshine, just laughed. “So much for gratitude; fancy going back to the brig, do you?”

Spitaels just glared, and Shaftoe went on: “But you ain’t quite as stupid as you look, mate,” he said. “You’re right, I’m a charlatan to the core, me; and you wouldn’t be the first to claim me a ruffian. But you’re wrong about the Fire. This is the one trick I can pull off. Eh, Jack?”

“I’d say you’ve got more than one trick up your sleeve,” said Jack with a wink, basking in the sunlit handsomeness of Jack Shaftoe and allowing (indeed, not being able to deny) himself another moment’s reverie.

*

**Provocation The Second: Late morning.**

**Hypothesis:** Well, it’s not that likely to’ve worn off yet. But you never know.

**Subject:** Still poor tortured Jack Shaftoe. And possibly will be forever more.

**Environment, Location, and/or Situation:** Not as private as it should be really. But we were dead subtle about it. Considering we were stood on deck in the comp’ny of Mr William Turner, Mr John Burton, and Mr Enoch Root. Making plans and all.

**Methodology:** The Subject is leaning innocently against the gunwales, arguing the finer points of the planned Expedition, as is his wont.

_Subject_ : But Enoch, those things might be miles down under the reef. We can’t just explode a bunch of Greek Fire on the surface of the water. All that’s going to do is make us all wet. Or possibly cindery. Neither of which is particularly constructive.  
Enoch Root: You have a point, and what is more, Jack, I’ve already been giving the matter some consideration. I may have a solution.

(The Provocateur makes an admiring and interested sound and moves (ostensibly) out of the way of Mr Joe Henry, who is scrubbing the deck. This places him directly in front of the Subject. The Provocateur moves backwards with catlike grace until he can progress no further, having met an Immovable Object. He then attempts to Move said Object (spiritually, and in an ideal world physically) by careful and affectionate application of pressure.)

_Subject_ , pretending that a pirate is not plastered up against him: And what solution’s that, Enoch?  
 _Enoch Root_ : We must encase the Fire in a semi-permeable membrane, and force it down far beneath the surface of the water.  
 _Subject_ and _Provocateur_ : Eh?  
 _John Burton_ : We’re going to wrap up a bundle of the stuff in oilcloth and fire it down the hole with a crossbow.

(The Subject, while making affirmative noises, attempts Active Participation in the Provocation by slipping his hand into the pocket of the Provocateur’s coat, which the Subject happens to know has a large hole in it. He knows this because he put it there several weeks ago “in case of emergency”. Inserting his hand through said orifice he shamelessly palpates the (erstwhile) Provocateur’s privities.)

_Provocateur_ , hurriedly pulling his coat closed: That wind’s a bit nippy isn’t it.  
 _Subject_ , rather sadly: Aye, nothing’s warming me up at the moment.  
 _Provocateur_ : I know what you mean.

**Result:** Hypothesis unwillingly confirmed.

*

“Captain, c’n I have a word?”

Jack turned from the visually arresting sight of Jack Shaftoe stripping to the waist and levering open the naphtha barrel, to see John Burton at his elbow.

“What can I do for you, mate?”

Burton pulled him aside, into the lee of the quarterdeck. He looked a little drawn; a little grey. Jack supposed it must be bloody hard for him, to be back here in this bay. Back here, where he’d held dying Ben Cooper in his arms. This mountain, these headlands; to Jack they were potent with memories of that first time that Jack Shaftoe’d given in to his desires, given in completely and gloriously, burying himself so deep in Jack’s body and in his heart. But for Burton, this place meant another sort of burial altogether.

“How long are we going to stay here, Captain? If this plan works this evening?”

“Not long, John. We’ll be on our way soon as ever we can,” said Jack, reassuringly. Contrary to Jack’s expectations, Burton’s face clouded over.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“It’s just that, that I was hoping… not today, I know we ain’t got time… but maybe, maybe tomorrow, to go an’, an’ pay my respects. Maybe… take Djagdao. Sounds stupid, I know.” He gave a wry smile, and reddened. “But I’d like Ben to… to meet him. To know that I’m… all right. He always said, if anything should happen to him…”

“’Course we can stay,” Jack assured him. “Long as you want, John. Long as you need.” And he clapped Burton on the shoulder, musing that the boy’d be going a lot redder right now if he’d been aware of the circumstances of:

*

**Provocation The Third: Just after Noon**.

**Hypothesis:** Didn’t have one. It was sort of an accident.

**Subject:** Oh, definitely the both of us. But let’s keep going with that Subject/Provocateur thing. It’s got a ring to it.

**Environment, Location, and/or Situation:** The dark. Down in the hold. On the hunt for pitch. Sent Mr Burton down quite some time ago but have not heard from him since. Hence a little expedition for Messrs Shaftoe and Sparrow. The Provocateur being habitually alert for opportunities to combine lack of company, absence of light, and presence of Shaftoe.

**Methodology:** (If you can call it that.) The Subject, being in the lead, stops suddenly.

_Subject_ , very close to the ear of the Provocateur: Shh… I heard something.  
 _Provocateur_ : Rats.  
 _Subject_ : Oh no. Shh. Listen.  
 _Unknown Party_ :: Unh. Ohhhh. Oh fuck.  
 _Subject_ : D’you think he’s all right?  
 _Provocateur_ : …Yes.  
 _Other Unknown Party_ :: [untranscribable but definitively Foreign]  
 _Subject_ (whispers): Fucking Martingale’s at it again.  
 _Provocateur_ : No he ain’t. He’s changing out the topgallant. That there’s Burton and Djagdao.  
 _Subject_ , head tilted, listening hard: I do believe you’re right.  
 _Provocateur_ : D’you suppose ol’ Djagdao’s as ornamentated as that Will?  
 _Burton_ : Oh godgodgod your mouth, Jesus, fuck, Djagdao, fuck, I’m going to—

(The Subject takes a step backwards. The Provocateur does not move out of his way.)

_Provocateur_ : Wrong way, mate, they’re aft. Go on. Let’s take a look.  
 _Subject_ : You’re a sick fuck, Sparrow.  
 _Provocateur_ : Hello? Jungle? Martingale? Stories about enormous gold-studded members?  
 _Subject_ : Oh all right.

(The Subject and the Provocateur creep forward. Or rather aft. Anyway. Light is minimal, being provided only through several cracks in the deck above. And one worryingly large one in the bulkhead, of which the Provocateur makes a mental note. However, it suffices, on peering around the corner, to illumine the wide-shouldered form of Mr John Burton, plastered against said crack-ridden bulkhead, and the form of Mr Djagdao (Guyanan Native) who appears to be administering some serious Provocation of his own. The Provocateur cannot deny a certain fascination with the proceedings and yet—

The Subject pulls the Provocateur away and up the passageway.

_Subject_ : That’s just fucking depressing.  
 _Provocateur_ : I know what you mean.  
 _Subject_ : Nothing?  
 _Provocateur_ : Nothing. Not a fucking twitch.

_Result:_ Bad temper for both parties.

*

By late afternoon Jack had recovered his equilibrium, and was ready to face Shaftoe again.

“How’re we going, gentlemen?” he enquired, as he emerged from the companionway.

It certainly smelled bad enough; Jack Shaftoe was stirring madly, madly enough to work up a fairly fine sweat. Jack proffered the bottles of porter he’d brought from below; Shaftoe gave his stick to Spitaels, and snapped, “Don’t stop stirring it, for Christ’s sake,” before coming over, and accepting the drink with a wide grin of thanks. Root took one too, and Burton.

Jack checked the sun, noted the black spires of reef starting to emerge to larboard. “Not long now, eh? We all ready?”

“Aye,” said Burton. “Ready as we’ll ever be; soon as Jack says this stuff’s ready to go, we can start parceling it up.”

“I have a chest,” said Root, “Which is as near water-proof as can be found; we’ll use it to transport the fire to the reef, and carry out our final assemblage there.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Jack, watching Shaftoe drain his bottle (something so lovely about the movement of his throat, swallowing!), wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, and then reach his hands behind his head, pulling his queue tight. The soft hair of his armpits dark with sweat, and the fresh salty smell of it…

… lit something. _Yes._ Lit something in Jack’s belly, something he hadn’t felt for days. His pulse gave a little jump. Oh, Christ, was that… was that…?

“And you, Mr Shaftoe? Are you… ready?” he asked, fixing the man with an intent look.

“Actually,” said Jack Shaftoe, blue eyes glittery, “I have been feeling a little bit… prepared. Not quite. But very nearly, I’d say. Just need this stuff to, to set.”

“By all means,” said Jack, his heart thumping. “You just do what you’ve got to do, mate. I’ll just sit myself down here, shall I; and, and _watch_.”

*

**Provocation the Fourth: Late Afternoon.**

**Hypothesis:** Something is happening.

**Subject:** Captain Jack Sparrow. And possibly Mr Jack Shaftoe, but we haven’t discussed it.

**Environment, Location, and/or Situation:** On deck, surrounded by pirates and alchemists and crossbows and evil smelling substances, and totally blinded to all of the above.

**Methodology:** The Provocateur (most definitely, in this case, Mr J Shaftoe) was going about his assigned business with the greatest of Professional Gravity. Aside from the fact that he was shirtless, and the sun was hot, and the wind had dropped, and there were rivulets of sweat running down his chest. And long strands of blonde hair sticking to his skin. As he stirred. And stirred.

_Provocateur_ , with an undeniably harlotrous look in the Subject’s direction: Nearly ready to go, I’d say.  
 _Enoch Root_ , glancing at Subject with a raised eyebrow: I think you might be right.  
 _Provocateur_ : Shall we add the final Ingredient, then? The… catalyst?

(The Provocateur picks up a bottle of rum. Uncorks it, and then takes a quick swig, licking his lips slowly.)

_Provocateur_ , holding out bottle to Subject: Fancy a taste, Jack?  
 _Subject_ : Don’t you need all the catalyst you can get?  
 _Provocateur_ , staring: I think we’ve got all the catalyst we need, mate.  
 _Subject_ , a little squeakily: Mr Root, perhaps you can complete the final stages by yourself? I need to, ah, to confer with Mr Shaftoe on some finer points of strategy.  
 _Provocateur_ , evilly: Oh no Captain, I need to finish this off. I can’t leave things half-done. Wouldn’t be right.

(He turns his back to the hapless Subject, and stands with one hand spread over his hip, fingers stroking the curves of his behind, as he pours the rum into the Mixture and shouts at the Apprentice to stir faster.)

**Result:** Not enough, not everything, but _something_. Fuck yes.

*

Finally, finally, finally: oh, God, Jack Shaftoe was killing him. Jack was watching the tide, watching the sun, timing it, timing it, and _time was running the fuck out_ , and he had to, had to, fit in a final Experiment. But Shaftoe was relentless: had to oversee the creation of those oilskin parcels. Had to check the crossbow and bolts with Burton. Had to do it all _fucking shirtless_ and constantly contriving to touch himself somewhere, anywhere, all the while throwing those smouldering blue sideways glances Jack’s way; and it was as if all those suppressed desires had been breeding and multiplying down in their hiding place deep in Jack’s gut, and now they were coming free, coursing in a dizzying spin through his blood. Jesus, he had to get his hands on Shaftoe, or he’d…!

“Right! Nearly time to go!” Jack cried, leaping to his feet. “Shore party, you all need your toughest boots; no boots, no reef. And arm yourselves well, gentlemen. Ooh Mr Shaftoe! Your feet are bare, that’ll never do. Quick, go an’ get your boots!”

Shaftoe ambled over, grinning slow and wicked as anything. “Not sure I can recall where they are,” he said.

“They are, without a shadow of a doubt,” said Jack, “in my cabin.”

*

**Provocation the Fifth: Very Late Afternoon.**

**Hypothesis:** Oh yes. Oh yes. Status Quo restored.

**Subject:** Dual. But let’s call Mr Shaftoe the Subject. He deserves an awful lot of Provocation.

**Environment, Location, and/or Situation:** In the Captain’s cabin. In blessed privacy. In a cursed hurry.

**Methodology:** Both parties enter the Location and the door is shut quite forcibly.

_Subject_ : It’s—

(The Subject is forced to abandon his assertion because the Provocateur’s mouth is pressed against his rather determinedly. The Subject doesn’t seem to object to this and is immediately kissing the Provocateur back with a certain degree of abandon, not to mention pushing the Provocateur’s coat off, throwing it on the floor, pulling his shirt out of his breeches, and running his hands up over the Provocateur’s back. The Provocateur notes, in a Scientific Manner, that there appears to be a raging fire in his belly, that his heart is doing some sort of odd Spanish dance in his chest, and that his yard is every bit as solid as the one which is poking him in the hip.)

_Subject_ : Oh thank fuck thank fuck thank fuck.  
 _Provocateur_ : I’m with you there.

(The Provocateur’s hand seems to’ve found its way into the Subject’s trowsers without any sort of conscious volition on the part of the Brain which is theoretically in charge of it. It is hard to care when the Subject gives a bestial growl and bites at the Provocateur’s lip. The Subject and the Provocateur have both got their hands on one another’s Vital Parts and Oh Holy God.)

_Subject_ : I’ve got to fuck you, Jack, I’ve got to.  
 _Provocateur_ , living up to the name: But we have to go and incinerate the Giant Squid now.  
 _Subject_ : Fuck the Giant Squid.  
 _Provocateur_ : Please, Mr Shaftoe, you can’t be that desperate.

(The Provocateur slips out of the Subject’s grip—a decision which he instantly recognises as an instance of what his mother always called “cutting off your nose to spite your face, you silly boy”—and takes up a pair of boots with which to fend the Subject off.)

_Subject_ : You have _got_ to be _ow!_ shitting me, Jack.  
 _Provocateur_ : Nope.  
 _Subject_ : You’re telling me that after all this time, now that we’ve got it back, you don’t want to?  
 _Provocateur_ : Are you insane? I’m fucking dying to.  
 _Subject_ : So you are hitting me with this boot because…?  
 _Provocateur_ : Because we’ve got pirating to do, mate. Sea creatures to obliterate. Gold to collect. And there is no _way_ I’m going to rush this reunion.

(The Provocateur relents, a little, and kisses the Subject, suffering a moment of shivery wonder so intense that he fears, briefly, that he may faint. This may however be the result of having all the breath crushed out of him by the Subject’s embrace.)

**Result:** Speaks for itself.

*

Jack Shaftoe groaned, or was it a sob, and kissed Jack with near enough vivid urgency to bring Jack to completion there and then. But no. No.

Jack tilted his head back, looking at Shaftoe from under his lashes, not trying to hold back the triumphant smile. “Tonight,” he said. “We’ll do what needs doing; and we’ll take out this bloody guaiacum; and we’ll be ourselves, and be cured. And be able to do all we want to do. And it’ll be, oh Christ, just as fine as that other night, leaving Guyana.”

“Better,” said Shaftoe, holding Jack’s hips in both big hands as he ground gently against him, setting up an itchy shiver where the faded wood slivers sat beneath Jack’s skin. “Better, Jack; for we’ll have nothing to fear on the morrow.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world,” Jack agreed, his heart soaring. “So put your boots on, Mr Shaftoe. We’re going back to the reef.”


	45. A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Five

  
  
Jack could've sworn that Enoch Root was laughing at him as he dropped down into the boat, Sparrow right behind him. True, the rest of 'em -- Bootstrap and Enoch in the stern, Burton snug with his new mate (Jack blushed to see Djagdao there, all serious as Burton showed him how to lean into the oar), Grey, and Spitaels huddled pale and scowling next to him, clearly having refused to row -- had been kept waiting in the pitching cutter; the tide was ebbing fast; the inky spires of the reef were a man's height and more above the water, and waves were breaking long and slow over the more level planes of rock. But damn it, he and Sparrow had _other_ matters to attend, and right now Jack suspected that their newly regained vigour was a greater treasure than any Spanish gold.

He settled himself on the bench, surreptitiously adjusting his anatomy: could feel Sparrow's gaze on him, at once hungry and amused, and returned the sweetest smile of which he was capable. Christ, it was hard to look away, when Jack Sparrow looked at him like that. Jack gripped his oar and focussed on the dark, sleek wood. The reef. The Fire. Pieter Spitaels and his probable utility. Anything that might lessen the dizzying surge of his blood, which -- unlike the tide hereabouts -- was very definitely in full flood.

"Let's go, gentlemen," said Sparrow from the bow. Martingale tossed down the painter, and the oarsmen bent to their work. Jack put his back into it, all right: hard labour was the only remedy he knew -- and a temporary one, at best -- for the urges that assailed him whenever he looked at Jack Sparrow.

"Hard a-port!" cried Sparrow, and Jack rested his oar, and watched as a foam-laced spike of rock slid past, close enough that he might have touched it. They were close now: Sparrow was calling the strokes, guiding them in to a deep, smooth-walled inlet near the north end of the reef. Jack peered down into the clear, dark water, wondering if that monster -- or, no, he'd slain the original; its kin -- might be lurking there, waiting for a tasty morsel or two.

Not Jack Sparrow, vowed Jack to himself. Not this time.

They scrambled out of the boat more or less dry-shod. Spitaels' hands were free -- any one of them could take him down without difficulty, and anyway there was nowhere to run -- but he moved as clumsily as though he were still bound: staggered against a saw-toothed excrescence, and opened his mouth to give vent to some further complaint.

"Careful, Mr Spitaels," said Sparrow reprovingly. "For all _we_ know, the monster might have a taste for blood."

Grey chuckled. Spitaels muttered something about the vile unwholesomeness of pirate blood, stuttering into silence when his eyes met Jack's. He pulled his coat more closely around himself, though the afternoon was still warm. There was a clanking sound.

"What's that you've brought?" enquired Enoch Root mildly. "We've all the makings of the Fire -- some final assembly required -- in here." And he nodded at the stout, iron-bound chest at his feet.

"Only a few, a few _preparations_ ," sulked Spitaels. "I did not deem them safe, on board that ship."

Jack rolled his eyes: Sparrow grinned. "Why," said Bootstrap, "d'you reckon some bloke'll consume your remedies?"

"Things are _mislaid_ , on board that ship," said Spitaels thinly. "And I'll not be blamed again, if some potent drug finds its way where it should not."

"Fair enough, fair enough," said Bill, clearly wishing he hadn't asked. "P'rhaps we can _poison_ this monster, ha ha. Now, Captain Sparrow, which way to its lair?"

* * *

Bill didn't care for Jack Sparrow's expression. Oh, Jack'd never show fear, nor common sense neither: 'twouldn't do to have the men see their captain afraid. Yet Bill, who knew Sparrow better'n most, could see the abortive flinch, the reluctance in the wry twist of his mouth. He glanced around. Shaftoe'd noticed, of course: but then, he'd encountered this monster at first hand, and something about the frank simplicity of his description had done more to convince the men than the sight of those nasty purple rings on Sparrow's neck and throat. Shaftoe believed there was something to fear.

"'Twas over that way, I reckon," said Jack Sparrow, gesturing t'wards the sharp black spines of the reef's backbone. "There's a mark, a cross, on the rock."

"Signs of a struggle, maybe," put in Shaftoe. "It's where you found us, Bootstrap: where Don Fucking Esteban caught up with us, at the last."

"This way, then?" enquired Enoch Root, clearly keen to stem the flow of reminiscence. "Mr Turner, would you be so kind?" He gestured at the squat chest: Bill stooped, and got hold of one handle, and Enoch took the other. The chest sloshed somewhat. Bill had seen it loaded with the raw, stenchful Fire, just like that first time, with the _Santa Ana_ , and he'd a healthy respect for the stuff: but Enoch had assured him that the chest was waterproof, and wouldn't break open or burst into flames during their transit of the narrow strip of ocean 'twixt _Pearl_ and reef.

Burton came behind them, lugging the crossbow, and his mate Djagdao -- quiet chap, but ready enough to smile at a jest -- carried the bag of quarrels.

"C'mon, mate," Grey was saying to Spitaels, "it's only water, an' I swear we'll pull you out if the monster gets you!"

Spitaels was po-faced. He muttered something indistinct, and Grey's face hardened. "No call for swimming," he snapped. "Come along, or stay here if you'd rather. On your own."

Bill turned his face forward again -- the rough rock was treacherous, and it wouldn't do to misstep and send the chest flying -- and grinned to himself. He could hear Spitaels stumbling along, his querulous voice rising in some new complaint.

Sparrow and Shaftoe, unburdened, had outpaced the rest of them: Jack Sparrow, in his new tricorne, was waving his arms around expansively, and Shaftoe's laughter drifted back on the breeze. Whatever the nature of that Remedy they'd had from the Chibcha, it seemed to've lifted their spirits at last. Bill rolled his eyes as Sparrow's hand crept t'wards Shaftoe's hip, and was slapped away. Bolder than usual, they were. Must be the drugs.

"This way!" Shaftoe was shouting, one arm outflung to indicate a high stone spire whose long late-afternoon shadow seemed a solid pool of blackness.

"Hold up, Mr Root," said Bill, more careful than ever of his footing now that they were in the shade. "Can't see a thing."

"Easy, there," said Enoch: and then, at last, they were setting down the chest, its perilous contents unspilt. (Not spilt _yet_ , thought Bill.) There was a pool that reflected only black rock, and the stone above it bore a deep-chiselled cross.

Must've taken a while to put that there, thought Bill. More'n one tide. "That it?" he said, stretching until his shoulders popped.

"That's it," said Sparrow, staring down into the dark water.

"How do you propose," said Pieter Spitaels unexpectedly, "to bring out the monster?"

Bill had a sudden, nauseating vision of Jack Sparrow squatting here on this reef, in the rain and the darkness, sawing busily at a corpse's fingers. He opened his mouth, and saw Jack Shaftoe's expression, all savagely gleeful: and did not speak.

* * *

'Twasn't the first time that John Burton had handled this foul, reeking, devil's brew, nor the first time he'd been the vector of destruction, as he was now. He thought of poor bloody Cooper, setting fire to each payload as John'd brought his crossbow to aim. Now there was Djagdao instead, watching carefully as Root and Grey ladled the messy jelly into oilskin pouches, ready for Bootstrap to lash to the crossbow bolts.

"I think you'll find," that Spitaels bloke was saying, "that the mixture will degrade over time, and combust --"

"It's got about a minute before it's _deployed_ ," snapped Jack Shaftoe, prowling the edge of the pool. The thin blades of rock crackled like straw beneath his boots. He hunkered down and dandled his fingers in the water.

Captain Sparrow stepped back: then stepped forward again, grabbing Shaftoe by the collar. "Watch it, Mr Shaftoe," he advised, "or you'll be dinner."

The look that Shaftoe gave his captain made John Burton glance over at Djagdao. The Chibcha was staring at Sparrow and Shaftoe, his expression inscrutable. There're worse examples, thought John, grinning at his friend, than those two: the heat between them bade fit to rival the incendiary effect of the Greek Fire. He liked the thought of Djagdao so inspired: Christ knew he wasn't backward when they were alone, but he'd hardly smile at John if there were others about, never mind ...

John Burton tore his thoughts, with some effort, from the acts that Djagdao might be persuaded to, back on the _Pearl_. Bootstrap was doing something clever with knots, making the pouches as watertight as might be. A trickle of pungent slurry oozed out of the pouch laid ready at Burton's feet, and he leapt back as it fizzed and flared across the tough leather of his boot. He lunged t'wards the pool, thinking to wash it off: but Shaftoe was there, pulling him back.

"Scrape it off, mate!" he cried. "Don't get it any wetter!"

Suddenly Djagdao was there with his knife, flicking the stuff away across the gleaming black rock. Burton's boot was pocked and pitted, the leather eaten away: but the Greek Fire had not eaten through to his skin. Small flames, improbably white, rose up where the splattered remnants fell: but they died down again, for lack of fuel, and several of the party -- John Burton included -- let free their pent-up breath.

"See?" Shaftoe was saying, irrepressibly, to Pieter Spitaels. "Still reckon I'm a charlatan, eh?"

"You abuse your learning, sir! You use it only for destruction!" cried Spitaels.

Burton held his breath again, eager to see Jack Shaftoe lose his temper: but Shaftoe only laughed.

"Aye," he said: "and what, pray, did you ask me to teach you, when we brought you aboard with the naphtha?"

Parts of Spitaels' pale face blotched darkly red, and he glared down at his own feet, refusing to answer.

"Come, gentlemen," said Enoch Root. "Let's be about this business of _Destruction_ , eh?"

Burton looked at his Captain -- oh, they might talk of two, and Mr Turner was a good sailor; but John Burton was Sparrow's man -- and raised his bow questioningly.

"Aye, Mr Burton," said Sparrow. "There's a foul beast lairing down beneath the water, there: give it your best shot, eh?"

John Burton stepped forward, careful of the sharp brittle rock at the edge of the pool. He set his feet well apart, for balance, and got his aim: then said, "Ready, Bootstrap: gi's a bolt, eh?"

It was an awkward business, but the two of them managed to get the bolt aimed without splattering Greek Fire everywhere: then Bootstrap sprang back -- sprightly as ever, the old woman'd done her work well  
\-- and nodded.

John took a deep breath, and steadied himself: he shot down into the dark well beneath the marked rock, and saw the trail of silvery bubbles rise up in the wake of his bolt, and the rings of water spread out and rebound from the edge of the pool.

"I told you --" began Spitaels.

Far beneath them, at the roots of the reef, something shook. From somewhere nearer came the sound of cracking rock. Burton stepped back nervously, in case that monster came rushing up all furious: but the moment stretched, and became minutes, and the surface of the pool smoothed over once more.

* * *

"Any man in his right mind could see that the method of delivery, the permeation of the membrane and the marriage of ..."

Bloody Spitaels! Would he never shut up? Jack exchanged a speaking look with Enoch, who was smirking into his beard. Shame Enoch hadn't seen fit to knock a little sense into Spitaels' head during one of his tête-à-têtes in the brig. Jack, as it happened, had a notion or two about that: why, he'd suggested it to Sparrow as they came across the reef, searching for the cross and the deep dark pool. "'Member how it likes fresh meat?" he'd said.

"What, are you suggesting we should slaughter a cow, or a pig?" Sparrow had retorted. "Strike me! I knew we'd _forgot_ something, in our ... haste."

Oh, that look! But Jack had refused to allow himself to be distracted.

"Nay," he'd said. "It went after Don Esteban's extremities keen enough, din't it?"

"Tenfold," Sparrow had said darkly: and he'd reached out and put his right hand over Jack's maimed left, in a gesture of such simple affection that Jack'd thought he might swoon, or spout declarations, or exhibit some equally missish behaviour.

"Anyway," he'd said, "we've got prime bait, there," jerking his head back at the stragglers.

"What, Spitaels?" had said Sparrow.

Jack'd shushed him. "I don't mean to, to _dismember_ him," he'd said (truthfully, as it happened, though he certainly had not ruled out this course of action). "Just to _dangle_ him a little. Bait, as it were."

"Mr Shaftoe," Jack Sparrow had opined, "that's a wicked idea. A very wicked idea."

"Aye," Jack'd bragged. "And don't he deserve it, eh?"

"What's he done to _you_ , then?"

"He near robbed me of something infinite rare," Jack had said, laying his hand on Sparrow's arm so there should be no disputing his meaning: and oh, oh, the way that Jack Sparrow had looked at him _then_ , promise and vow and declaration in one.

Jack turned, and glanced at the western sky. It was later than he'd thought: the coppery sun trembled on the hills of Saint Lucia, ready to slip below and plunge the world into darkness. Time to have this over and done with.

"Mr Spitaels," he cried, "shut up. Mr Burton: would you be so kind as to lend me your crossbow, sir?"

"What're you going to do?" said Burton suspiciously, cradling his weapon.

"Just want to give it a try myself," said Jack. "I reckon it's just the angle: from what I recall, there's all manner of protrusions and angles down there, and could be you hit the wall of the pool, and didn't get all the way in."

"Very important, to get all the way in," murmured Sparrow from beside him, and Jack flushed.

"Not sayin' I'll do any better," he lied, "but let me give it a go, eh? Once we've got the range and the angle, it'll be a piece of piss."

Burton grinned at him: he handed over the crossbow, nasty big awkward thing that it was, and stepped back to stand by Djagdao.

"Righto," said Jack. He'd been testing out the rim of the pool, earlier: now he positioned himself right on the brim, leaning forward t'wards that ancient Jerusalem cross. "Bill? Can you set me up with another bolt, mate?"

"Aye," said Bill Turner, fingers quick and careful on the knots. He'd splashed his shirt, the uneven stripes of which drew and tormented Jack's eye again and again, with dark, sticky gloop: all it'd take was a clumsy splash, a mis-handled oar, on the way back, and Bill'd take no convincing to get that horrid excuse for a garment off him and away.

"All set," said Bill, oblivious to Jack's sartorial speculations. He stepped back.

"Thanks, mate," said Jack, raising the bow. Christ, it was heavy enough, with that hellish mixture slopping in its oilcloth sack. He peered down into the pool, which was blacker than ever. Nothing to see there, nothing to aim at, no writhing tentacled mess rising to the light. He leaned forward a little further.

"Have a care, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow from his left. "I'd _hate_ to lose you."

"Oh yes, Captain: I will," said Jack, and winked. He aimed downwards, straight down, at his own dim reflection, drew back the trigger, and fired.

The force of the shot jolted his shoulder, and something nudged against his knee, making him sway. He drew breath to yell at Sparrow, to tell him to stop arsing around: but Sparrow hadn't moved, and his face, mouth a horrified round O, was --

The water, cold enough to weaken every muscle in Jack's body, crashed up around him as he fell. A split second to gulp a lungful of air, and to think _Spitaels_ , and to see above him a spiral of silvery air, below him a pale unnatural glow blossoming in the dark. The dark ragged walls pressed in, rock rough against his hands as he grabbed at the rock to halt his descent. Something hard and edged -- the damned crossbow -- caught him in the ribs, and he bit his tongue against the urge to exhale. Down, and no one coming after him. Down toward the fire, and the beast. Sucked down.


	46. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Six

  


There was a shocked moment of silence, a frozen tableau of men staring at the black swirling pool.

Perhaps the others were expecting the same as Bill, which was that, at any second, Jack Shaftoe’s blond head would break the surface, accompanied by a litany of foulest curses, and they would haul him out, and laugh at him; that he would spend the next hour complaining intermittently about being wet, and what a ridiculous thing it was to live upon the sea, which was so very cold and drenching, a habitat fit for naught but fishes and imbeciles. Any second now...

But nothing broke the surface; nothing, and then one sharp word, one _Fuck!_ came from behind him. Jack Sparrow darted past, throwing his tricorne down on the wet rocks, stripping off his coat and tugging at his sword-belt and—

“Jack, no!” Bill cried, and he grabbed Jack’s arm; nearly recoiled from the sheer force of the fury in Jack’s face, but held tight, and they struggled, far too close to the mouth of that well for Bill’s liking. “You ain’t going down there!” Bill insisted.

“The fuck I’m not! Let go of me right now, William Turner, or I swear to you—”

“We don’t know what’s down there!”

Jack was twisting like an enraged eel in Bill’s grasp, but Bill had a size advantage, and he stoically ignored the violent kicks that were delivered to his shins.

“I’ll tell you what’s down there, _Jack Shaftoe_ is down there, you fucking idiot,” hissed Jack, and he brought his left hand up, grabbing at Bill’s throat to hold him back and away, wrenching his other hand free and scrabbling at his belt again. Bill could feel the deep shake in his friend’s limbs; could see the fear twisting up his face. He understood it, oh he did. After all that had gone before.

Pieter Spitaels was shrieking something: “That, that monster! I saw’t! It grabbed his leg! ‘Tis why he fell!”

“You lying little shit!” shouted John Burton, from where he and his mate were kneeling at the edge of the pool, Djagdao peering down at the deep fading glimmer of Fire. “What? Can you see him?” cried Jack, and then to Bill, “Will you _fuck off_ and just let me—”

“No!” roared Bill, surprised at his own vehemence. “If that thing’s still there, then it’s got him, and there’s nothing you can do about it, save feed it more; and if it ain’t, why then he’ll be up in a second, any second, and—”

“What d’you mean, lying?” Enoch was demanding of Burton, and Djagdao and Burton were both talking, and Spitaels was shrieking back at ‘em, and Bill was trying to listen to that, too, for hadn’t Spitaels been standing awfully close to Jack Shaftoe, there on the other side of the pool?

But Jack Sparrow gave a despairing wriggle, and cried, “And what if he’s hit his head, or he’s hurt? And what if it _has_ fucking got him? He came for me, when it took me down, and I’m not about to—”

Oh, Jack Sparrow was a cunning bugger; he’d relaxed in Bill’s grip, and started up with all his wild gesticulating as he talked. And then the moment, the _instant_ that Bill eased his hold, Jack punched him hard on the jaw, and he went down, painfully, on the knifey wet reef.

*

“Sorry, mate,” Jack said, as he pulled off his belt and strode to the edge of the well, and he had one foot already poised over that black void when someone surprisingly strong grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back.

Enoch. Jack rounded on him, teeth bared, perfectly ready to kill whoever, or whatever, else was standing between him and Jack Shaftoe—Jesus, he could feel every second passing, could count them with the crashing beats of his heart, and he knew, he _knew_ how long they had before Shaftoe was a dead man, and that time was near half gone already—but Root was looking down in the pool, and Grey was making a disgusted noise, and Jack turned to see something pale, something _oh Christ is it him?_ slowly ascending from the depths.

It was not him. It was a few feet long, white, fleshy, streaked with livid purple and blackened burns, and Jack knew what it was. Or what it was part of, anyway.

“There!” he shouted. “It’s dead, now let me fucking _go_!”

“It’s maimed, that’s all we know,” said Enoch, not releasing his hold, and here was Bill again, bloodied but unbowed, ready to help hold him back, and Jack couldn’t stand here and argue the point for one more blessed second. He’d grabbed his knife from his belt, and now he pressed it, close and deadly, against Enoch’s belly. “Let. Me. Go,” he said, low, and as dangerous as he could.

Enoch looked at him, all steady in this whirly place of horror, and said, calmly, “I will, Jack. But I’m not sure if you realise that Jack Shaftoe fell because Pieter Spitaels knocked him. And if you need a… diversion, in case that creature’s still breathing, you could—”

Oh, the black rage that took him then, the blackest, the coldest, and as Enoch’s hold on him loosened, Jack spun around in one fluid unthinking movement, grabbed Pieter Spitaels by a great handful of his coat, and leaped into the chilly water.

Spitaels did not even have time to scream. He flailed in Jack’s grip, hitting out ineffectually as Jack towed him remorselessly down into the dark. Little bastard. Hadn’t this been Shaftoe’s idea, all along, to use Spitaels as Bait and Distraction? At the very least, he deserved to have the shit scared out of him. Christ, it was cold down here, and relentlessly black; he couldn’t see a bloody thing. All he knew was that he had to go down, down until he found Jack Shaftoe.

Because if he didn’t. Oh God. If he didn’t.

Something touched his outstretched arm. Something chill. He grabbed at it, and realised in a cold instant that it was not human.

And that it was grabbing him back.

Afterwards, Jack could reconstitute some justifiable defense for his actions. Afterwards, he could lay it all out in front of himself, as a logical train of thought: the beast was alive, the beast had been down here with Jack Shaftoe for over a minute, ergo the beast had taken Jack Shaftoe. But there were two of them down here with it now, and Jack was fucked if he was going to be eaten by that bloody thing in preference to Pieter Spitaels. All quite logical. But the truth was that at that very second, it was the purest, cruelest and most selfish instinct that drove him to wrestle the wretched alchemist round beneath himself, to prise that tentacle from his own wrist and slap it down on Spitaels’, to kick the man downwards into the depths and the darkness and the arms of the beast, and to launch himself up to the surface. Away from the monster.

Away from whatever might remain of Jack Shaftoe.

*

They’d all been frozen at the edge of the water, just as when Shaftoe’d disappeared beneath its dark surface; but this time, within seconds, there was a rushing commotion in the pool, and Jack Sparrow’s sleek black head launched out of the water. John grabbed his captain’s arm, hauling him up and out and onto the sharp rock, and leaned out behind him, looking for Shaftoe, for Spitaels, for anyone. But Sparrow was scrabbling back from the edge, dragging John and Djagdao with him.

“It’s down there,” he panted. “Down there, and it’s got Spitaels.”

“What about Jack?” demanded Enoch, and John felt something cold clench itself about his heart at the look that passed over Sparrow’s face. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.

Christ, it hurt, it was like Ben all over again; not for John himself, this time, but he could see the captain’s agony so clear, and it spoke to that deep buried pain in his own chest, pulled it up to the surface from the safe place where he’d secreted it, and he wanted to howl or roar or hit something. He dug his fingers into Djagdao’s arm, holding on for dear life. Not another. Oh not another. Oh Ben, oh Ben, not another.

And then the water was roiling and boiling again, and John was scrambling away from it with all the others as pale tentacles broke the surface, writhing and maddened. He could see dark puckered burns on the flesh; the Fire had found its mark, then. Jesus, the thing was huge, those limbs were the size of his own leg, and those great round suckers pulsed and clenched, reaching out, seeking—

There, amidst the monstrous arms of the thing, a hand, clawed, trembling, reaching out into the air. Christ, Spitaels was still alive; and then a great tentacle came out of the depths, all curled about the broken body of the alchemist, lifting him high into the air (John could hear his sucking desperate gasp) and bringing him crashing down onto the rocks at the edge of the pool, like a child, like a doll. There was a sickening sound of cracking, splitting, and John wanted to turn away from it, but could not; Spitaels’ head broke open, red and yellow spilling darkly over the splintery reef, and some searing chymical smell arose from him. All those bottles and vials, that’d been inside his long coat; they were smashed and cracked, leaking and intermingling, hissing and running into the pool, and all the men on the reef covered their mouths and noses from the stinging stench of it. The beast pulled the corpse back down

for one silent second, and then

it came lurching from the well, shuddering, flailing, flinging Spitaels’ body away from itself. Great tremors shook its poor burned limbs, livid purple flesh quivering and shivering as it struggled to pull its great heavy bulk out of the water, away from the agonising poisons that Spitaels had brought with him. Djagdao was shouting in Chibcha, some desperate invocation, and Grey was shrieking a stream of terrified profanity; John was struck dumb, mouth agape. The great body of the thing half emerged from the water, and he saw a small, black eye, somehow pathetic and afraid as it looked at him; and then there came two loud reports from over his shoulder, and the eye exploded, and the creature went heavy and limp.

Faster than he would’ve guessed, its body slipped and slithered back down into the pool.

*

Jack threw down his pistol, and glanced over at Bill, still standing with his arm outstretched, having shot the creature at the self-same moment Jack did.

“Right,” he said, striding back over to the pool and sitting on the edge, lowering his legs in. “It’s dead _now_ I’m sure you’ll agree, so I’m off to get Mr Shaftoe.” He did not let himself think on how long it had been since Shaftoe fell. Just had to get in there. Had to.

A hand came on his shoulder—oh, surely no one was going to argue again! He turned, a feral snarl twisting his lips; but it wasn’t Bill, wasn’t Enoch. It was John Burton; and though it was near dark, Jack thought he could see a silvery line working its way down the man’s cheek.

“Jack,” said Burton softly. “Captain. He’s gone.”

“That’s why I’m going to get him back, Mr Burton,” Jack snapped.

“He’s not coming back,” said Burton, his face full of pity, but his words relentless. “You know it, Jack. It’s been too long. He’s gone.”

Time stopped. Jack seemed trapped in a body of ice, surrounded by black rock and still men, fading light and cold lapping water.

He knew it. He knew no man could survive that long down there. Not even wondrous Jack Shaftoe; not even if he had avoided the Fire; not even if he had avoided the beast.

But no. _No_. He could not have lost Jack Shaftoe. Not just like that. Not after all they’d been through. Not just as they were cured. Not now. It couldn’t be.

A life without Shaftoe’s sweet broad smile, his blazing blue-eyed passions, his careless laugh, his lust for everything that the world had to offer, seemed suddenly to be no life at all. And all those things that had mattered before: Jack’s beloved ship, his company, his friends, his burgeoning legend, all seemed trite and meaningless without Jack Shaftoe to share them with him.

The cold paralysis retreated as fast as it’d come, and was replaced by a sick burning agony, low in his belly.

Burton was right: Shaftoe was gone. Shaftoe was _dead_. He forced his mind to shape the word. Dead.

“Then I shall find his body,” Jack heard himself say. He had to go down. Had to know what had happened.

“What if there are more of them?” said Bill, coming to crouch beside him, and then, more gently, “Don’t, Jack. It’s a fool’s errand.”

“So call me fool,” said Jack.

“It’s too dark,” said Burton. “You’ll find nothing, Jack. It ain’t worth the risk.”

Jack fought an urge to hit the man. Jack Shaftoe was worth any risk. Even Jack Shaftoe’s body was worth any risk. He could not walk away from his last chance to see Shaftoe’s face again in this life; not even his cold, blue, lifeless face.

“I’m going down,” he said. “And as soon as I’m beneath the surface, Mr Burton, you’re to pour in the rest of the Fire; make me some light, down there.”

Burton blanched, and opened his mouth to argue; Jack said, as violently as he could, “That is a fucking _order_ , Burton, and don’t you damn well think of arguing it.”

“Aye, Jack,” said Burton, simply; Jack saw understanding, mingling with the pity on his face.

It was cold, as he lowered himself into the pool; cold, and dark, though Grey had lit two torches, and he and the Indian stood either side of the water, illuminating as best they could.

“Jack,” Bill said, kneeling down and reaching out a hand, clasping Jack’s: “Take care, and no risks, you hear me?”

Jack, his heart too stony with shocked grief to appreciate Bill’s affections, just nodded. Took a deep breath, and dived.

Burton was true to his word; as Jack kicked downwards, a cold white light bloomed above him. Down beneath, the green-black walls of the sinkhole; there, the great chain stretching downwards, the chain that Jack Shaftoe had told them of. The water was cloudy with blood, with whatever horrid fluids that beast’d contained, with silt stirred up by the explosions of Greek Fire.

Jack swam down. Down.

There was no sign of the dead creature. No sign of the bottom of the well. No sign of Jack Shaftoe. The light began to fade, and then flared again; good man, Burton, knew how long Jack could hold his breath. Knew it was worth another dose.

He could not see the bottom; it all disappeared into a murky haze of rock and muddied water. It was getting narrower. Darker. Colder. Jack had never been in a place that felt more like a tomb. His chest was hurting; his fingers getting numb with cold and lack of air. A bit further. A bit further.

Oh Christ, Jack Shaftoe. Jack Shaftoe, what happened to you?

He had no more breath. He had to go back, now, or…

There was no _or_. He was Captain of the _Black Pearl_. He had a ship, a crew. There was no _or_.

A final blossom of light, from far above; Jack peered down, one last despairing time. Let his eyes follow the chain down, and there, oh there, was something square and dark, squatting on a jutting ledge. The treasure was real. But his vision was starting to go, red sparks flashing before his eyes, his lungs burning and bursting; he had to go.

He turned, awkward in the narrow passage; kicked himself up, and away.


	47. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Seven

  
Posted on behalf of my b'loved Co-Author, who is, sadly, Otherwise Engaged. 

Captain Turner was talking with Grey, a lean tall man with a sour face, and pointing toward the seaward edge of the ridge. He spoke too low and quick for Djagdao to comprehend, yet it was clear that he was asking Grey to signal the ship, to send more men. But what could twenty do, that six could not?

Only six men living, now, on this sometimes-land. Captain Turner and Mr Grey, arguing over the empty chest. Djagdao here, helpless; but dear John Burton at his side. Captain Sparrow over by the pool, staring down into that terrible fatal depth. The water was dark and greasy with Devil-blood and poison, and murk from far beneath: nothing to be seen, but still he stared. Enoch the Red was at his shoulder, speaking softly, offering a pewter flask. (Djagdao knew Enoch from the village -- this had not been his first visit -- but he had never seen him among his own kind, and wondered that still he seemed somehow apart from them, even as he had from Djagdao's folk.) Sparrow was shivering, water streaming from his clothes, and his face was corpse-coloured beneath the tan. He shook his head, and Enoch thrust the flask at him again, insistent, 'til he took it and drained it.

Two men had died today, here between high water and low. Djagdao had witnessed one death -- that fearful, cavilling man who'd only emerged from his place on the ship that very afternoon. His broken body lay sprawled and seeping on the teeth of the rock, and the others stepped over and around it as though it was not there.

And the other, Jack Shaftoe. Djagdao had seen men dive for many minutes, but never this long: and he had seen the Devil in the deep, and the way that it had crushed and crashed the dead man on the rocks, like an empty shell. Perhaps Jack Shaftoe's death had been an easier one, down in the cold dark depth. Perhaps the Devil had let him be, and the sea itself had taken him.

"Do we go back, now?" he asked Burton.

Burton was weeping, as these men did, and he did not hide it. "I don't know," he said thickly. "We wait."

Djagdao glanced over his shoulder. The sun had dropped behind the island, and soon it would be dark. The sea would rise again and sweep them away, if they stayed here. He turned east, towards the great ship, and saw men standing all along the rail, watching them: they must have heard the shots, and be wondering what had happened.

"Someone must find the gold," he said to Burton. "I can --"

"No, mate, not down there: you mustn't!" cried Burton, all distressed: and he grasped Djagdao's shoulder as though he thought Djagdao might take two running steps and plunge deep without any readying.

"The Devil is dead," Djagdao explained, "and the pool is poison to its kind, now. Better now, than later. And ..." He paused, unsure if this was the right thing to say. Yet it was true. "Jack Shaftoe is there, in the deep."

Burton turned a fierce look on the broken corpse arched across the rocks. "That bastard ...! Oh, I'd murther him myself, if he yet lived." His voice softened. "I won't lose you, Djagdao. I won't."

"I swim well," Djagdao assured him proudly. "I can stay below for longer." Longer than you weak pale men, he wanted to say. But Captain Sparrow had stayed beneath the water for long minutes, the terrible Fire flaring down to light his way, looking for Jack Shaftoe. Djagdao would not compare himself, not now, to Sparrow.

"You don't have to," said Burton. "They shan't make you!"

"No one will _make_ me," said Djagdao stiffly. "Am I not free to choose?" Then he saw the open fear in John Burton's face, and put his hand upon Burton's, like a vow. "I shall not be lost," he promised.

* * *

They'd gathered round Sparrow as though they could protect him, though from the look on his face there was nothing more that could befall him. Bill ached for his old friend: oh, he'd miss Jack Shaftoe all right, cocky upstart that he was, but Jack Sparrow ... Jack'd given his _heart_ , and that was a rare thing indeed.

Bill glanced over at Pieter Spitael's twisted, discoloured corpse. Lucky he'd gone as quick as he had: Bill didn't care to think of the vengeance that Jack might've visited upon him, else.

"Listen, mate," he murmured now, standing close to Sparrow, just in case. "We'll go back to the _Pearl_ in a mo, all right? Time enough for the gold in the morning."

"Fuck the gold," said Sparrow tonelessly.

"Is it there?" said Grey. "Did you ..." and fell silent as Bill kicked him.

"There's something down there, aye," said Sparrow, without interest. "Carter can get it up."

"I will go," said Djagdao unexpectedly.

Sparrow turned his empty, hollow stare upon the Indian. "He's gone," he said. "Jack Shaftoe's gone. So there's no hurry, mate."

Djagdao bowed his head. Bloody Indians, as inscrutable as anything: Bill couldn't read his expression at all. Was he sorry? Did he understand what Shaftoe had been to Jack Sparrow? Burton was there at his side: perhaps he did.

"Tomorrow," said Djagdao. "Tomorrow, when the sun comes up."

"Right, good," said Bill quickly. "Back to the ship for the night, eh? Come along, Captain Sparrow: tide's on the turn, and we're losing the light."

Sparrow did not resist. He followed Bill over the jagged rock, stumbling but never quite falling, and Bill did not dare look back at his face. He glanced back once, and saw Enoch Root stooping over what was left of Spitaels: but the Alchemist straightened, empty-handed, and hurried after them toward the cutter, pitching on the turning tide.

It was full dark by the time they tied up at the _Black Pearl_ 's stern, and the men at the taffrail were murmuring in horrified surprise as they saw who'd returned, and who had not. Bill caught Shaftoe's name more than once. He sprang up the ropes, trusting to Burton and Grey to render what assistance Jack Sparrow might need: stood there at the rail, bringing close the men with a sweeping look, and said, low and fierce, "Shaftoe's gone, and Spitaels too: make nothing of it, not tonight, boys."

Sparrow, blank-faced and clumsy as a corpse, set foot on deck: no one said a word, not after Bill's caution, but there were nods and grave looks and bowed heads. Sparrow moved through them all as though they were ghosts, and Burton and Root followed anxiously behind.

"Enoch," said Bill as the Alchemist came past him. Root paused, and Bill beckoned him close. "Enoch ... he needs sleep, tonight."

"Indeed," said Enoch. "Let Burton take him to his cabin, Bill: I'll see you there."

The men were milling around, uncertain of themselves. Bill stayed on deck for long enough to bid those who were not on duty to their mess and their hammocks, and to speak to those who'd be heading to the reef tomorrow morning. He singled out Carter, and Neri, the Lascar who said he'd dived for pearls as a boy, and told them to pay heed to Djagdao, who'd seen the pit and the monster within. _That_ won him a brief smile from the Indian, and a nod of thanks. 'Twas a bright flicker of pleasance, amid all the horror, to see that smile, never mind the irregularity of the man's recruitment. Bill nodded back at him, and bade Grey choose four strong men to pull on oars and ropes: then he took himself below, to the Captain's cabin.

Jack Sparrow sat there at the table, an empty beaker before him, Burton hovering over him. He looked more tired than Bill had ever seen him, even after a two-day blow or a three-day debauch, and he stared unblinking at the beaker, eyes dark and empty and red-rimmed. His face was streaked, where tears and lamp-black had run.

There was a tap at the door: Enoch, carrying a steaming cup, shouldered it open. He gave Jack an appraising look. "You'll feel better if you drink this," he advised.

"I'll feel better," said Jack hoarsely, not looking at any of them, "if you all leave me the fuck alone."

Enoch flicked a glance at Bill. "Drink this, Jack, and we'll be gone. But you must shift out of those wet clothes, before you ... before you rest."

Sparrow had turned to stare at the bed, where a grubby shirt sprawled across the rumpled sheets. He blinked hard, and scowled.

Bill caught Enoch's eye, and jerked his head at the door. Did it again when Enoch looked set to argue.

Enoch raised his eyes briefly heavenwards. "Mr Burton," he said, "would you lend a hand in my cabin, please?"

"I ... oh, yes. Surely," said Burton, shooting Bill a hard look. He followed Enoch out, and the door snicked shut behind him.

"Bill, I don't want to hear it: save your breath."

"I'm not saying anything," said Bill. "Just making sure you get to your bed, mate." And he uncorked his own flask, and drank deep: and, at Sparrow's wordless gesture, poured a slug of rum into that crusted beaker, its bottom thick with herbal sludge, and watched as his captain drank it down.

* * *

The sun struck rainbows from the feathery spray raised by two sets of oars, one boat driving for the reef as each wave, receding, uncovered more of it, and one -- the gig, with Enoch in it -- heading for the strand. He was not the only passenger: Jack Sparrow sat in the bow, scowling at the waves, head turning again and again. Searching, Enoch saw: and his heart, brimful of sorrow already for his friend Jack Shaftoe, ached for Sparrow too. How improbable, that these two should have become everything to one another!

Sparrow was silent this morning. He had stood by as Turner oversaw the preparations for the treasure-party, and merely nodded when Turner asked if he was satisfied with the crew. Enoch did not think he had eaten, but at least last night's draught would have brought him merciful oblivion. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his mouth was set in a hard braced line  
  
"Bring her up there," directed red-eyed John Burton. "There, on -- what's that?"

Sparrow, his hands braced on the gunwale, half-stood, and the little boat rocked. Enoch steadied himself and leant forward, narrowing his eyes against the dazzle.

"Oh, Christ, it's a man," cried Jamie Martingale. "A man in the water. Pull, John, pull! A-port!"

They were rowing across the long rollers now, and spray drenched them all in moments, but no one faltered. Very soon the corpse -- face-down, rolling sluggishly as the ebb-tide sucked it back out to sea, air ballooning its garments -- was close enough for Martingale to touch with his oar: but Jack Sparrow had already sunk back down, shoulders slumped.

"This man has been long in the water," noted Enoch, leaning out to take a closer look. "A Spaniard, perhaps, from the _Furia_ : no doubt our explosions shook his body free from some submarine grave." He did not feel it necessary to remark upon the bloating of the body, or the dark hair, all tangled with weed, that streamed around the head.

"Turn 'im over," said Sparrow, rustily.

Martingale looked askance at his captain, but he got the blade of his oar underneath the body, and heaved.

Burton swore, and looked away, and Enoch held his breath as a mephitic belch of gas enveloped them. Sparrow alone seemed unmoved by the red stringy ruin where the man's face had been, by the gaping wound in his gut, where something stirred sluggishly.

"A nameless sailor," said Enoch. "Let the sea have him."

"Not nameless," said Sparrow, and there was something hard in his voice. "That's Don Esteban de Espinosa, there."

"What makes you say so, Jack?" asked Enoch: for surely there was little enough to recognise. Perhaps the wound ...?

"His hands," said Sparrow, turning his face away from them all; and something else that Enoch did not hear. He was looking at the man's limbs, at the bare bone exposed where some sea-creature had feasted upon his flesh: at the maimed hands, all nibbled and fingerless.

Burton spat over the side of the boat, and glanced at the shore, rather nearer now across a confusion of white water. "C'mon," he said thickly. "Let's bring her in."

It was hard work, Enoch could see, for two men to carry the boat safely through the breakers: but without an oar there was no help he could offer, save to swing himself out into the surf and help to haul her up above the foam.

"What now?" he said.

"I want to see the, the place," said Burton, glancing nervously at his captain. "Where Ben's buried."

"What of Djagdao?" said Enoch, delicately.

"He c'n come later," said Burton. "When the ... when they're done." And he stared out towards the reef where tiny figures moved, silhouetted against the bright morning sky.

Martingale fell into step beside Burton, heading up the beach: Enoch hung back, waiting for Jack Sparrow, who stood at the surf-line, shading his eyes, peering along the long curve of the bay.

"Jack?" said Enoch.

Sparrow said nothing, and Enoch -- praying that this was the right action, the right time -- went on. "I'd thought to have a service for ... for Jack Shaftoe."

"We've no body," said Sparrow blankly, as though it mattered.

"No, but that does not mean we mourn him any the less," said Enoch. "Nor that we cannot make our farewell, and lay him to rest. To remember him, and to celebrate his life."

Jack Sparrow turned to look at Enoch, and his face was bright with tears: he did not try to hide them now.

"Oh, I remember him, Enoch. I remember ..." He swallowed, hard. "I remember _everything_."

* * *

Jack could not stand it, could not stand to speak of it, could not stand the way they were all gentle with him. He began to walk along the shoreline, and Enoch, for a mercy, did not follow. Jack thought that if there were any room in his heart, he'd be warmed by Enoch Root's care and pity: he'd be comforted by Enoch's faith, by his eternal certainties.

There was no room. Jack's whole world, now, was what he'd lost: had been from the moment he'd woken, dawn just paling the sky beyond the porthole, to the instant, all-encompassing knowledge that Jack Shaftoe was dead. Whatever Enoch had given him last night had bestowed a heavy dreamless sleep upon him. Jack rather thought that he'd be wanting more of that, in the days, the months, to come. Consciousness was harsh stabbing pain, was choking back the need to howl and wail and rant against Fate. Why _now_? Why, just when they were whole again, and hale, and Cured? Why, when all the bright world 'waited them?

A serpentine length of driftwood reared from the shelly sand in front of him, twigs reaching out like fingers, festooned with reddish weed. Jack stepped over it, twitching his coat free of its wormy grasp.

He would never forget that last instant, Shaftoe turning t'wards him, mouth open to cry out, to call to Jack -- surely to Jack -- to save him. Shaftoe all fine and fierce and full of life. Jack could not imagine him dead, twisted and torn like Don Esteban's sodden corpse: could not imagine him broken and crushed like Spitaels.

Jack had lain in their -- his -- bed, staring up at the underside of the deck, trying not to think. Trying not to recognise the yeasty, musky smell of Jack Shaftoe on the sheets, on that filthy shirt that he'd tossed aside, all splashed with Alchemical matter, before they set out for the reef.

When -- oh, 'twas agony to think of it, but he owed Shaftoe no less -- he'd begged to fuck Jack, when he'd put his hand to Jack (and Jack's hand on him, all glorious joy) and kissed and bitten and growled. And Jack had told him no: had said -- and the memory razored at his heart -- "all the time in the world".

All the time in the world stretched out empty before him. Would there be a day when this hurt less? When he did not curse himself for his own bloody hubris, for his blithe blind optimism?

Jack kicked savagely at a long ribbon of weed that'd caught at his boot. His hip throbbed, and he set his hand to the place where the faded sliver of wood still rubbed, a tiny nagging discomfort, a _promise_ for fuck's sake, against the underside of his skin.

Jack Shaftoe'd set it there.

Jack --

There was something dark on the sand ahead of him. A knot of weed, no doubt; a rock; a dead fish, or a scorched tentacle, or a stray spar from the wreck of the _Furia_ , two months sunk. All manner of flotsam had been stranded by the receding waves, strewn along the shore, perhaps brought free by yesterday's explosions or by some distant storm.

Jack did not let his pace quicken. His limbs, all strung on hot wires, ached with the sheer effort of living. Perhaps that would pass. Perhaps, as Enoch would surely tell him later, everything would pass, even the heat of Jack Shaftoe's kiss, the strength of his arms 'round Jack, the flaxy mess of his hair, with that bone (its twin left relic in Jack's hair) braided into it by Jack's own hands.

The bright flaxy mess.

Jack began to run.


	48. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Eight

  


He’d never wanted to see a body more. And that in itself was a nightmare, a vileness; Jack Shaftoe’s corpse, something that yesterday would’ve been his most hellish imagining, was now the very pinnacle of his hopes.

To see that face again, to cradle that body in his arms; even a chill, blue-lipped shadow of Jack Shaftoe would give Jack one last chance to fix those dear features in his mind, scour them into his recall as proof against memory-thieving Time. And Jack knew how much better it was, how much cleaner a wound, when a man could bury the body of a lost… friend (he could not bring himself to use any other word, though he knew several that would be so much closer to the truth of it). Please, please, let it be him…

His blood thumped and crashed in his ears as he ran, and his breath broke from him in angry sobs. The closer he came, the surer he was. The long blond hair, the narrow waist, the sprawl of limbs. The beast had not damaged him. He was all there. All intact.

The body was all but face down, head pillowed in the crook of an elbow, cruelly reminiscent of the way Jack Shaftoe slept. It had been out of the water for some time, and lay just on the high tide mark, amidst the shells and wrack and soft blowing sand, which gathered in the folds of shirt and in the wild tangles of salt-crusted hair. A large orange crab scuttled out from the shadow of one long leg.

Jack stopped a few feet away. Stopped, and stood, and looked. Slowly, like a man who’d taken a mortal wound, he sank to his knees; tears welled up anew and he made no effort to stem them.

_Oh, Jack Shaftoe. What we could’ve done, what we could’ve been…_

He crawled forward, and held a trembling hand out over Shaftoe’s arm. The sun had warmed the flesh, and it radiated heat. Jack lowered his hand, till golden hairs feathered against his palm; then snatched it back, as if it were burned.

There was hair all over Shaftoe’s face. Gently, with one finger, he lifted it away.

There. There. A thousand times more perfect than he’d dared to hope; a few grazy scratches on one cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose, but otherwise, it was his Jack. The same strong square jaw, stubbled with gold; the same straight nose, with those fierce scowling lines betwixt his brows that never quite disappeared, even when he laughed. The barely perceptible indentation on his cheek where that dimple would appear with the slightest provocation. His lips were red as ever; and Jack wanted, oh God he wanted, just one more moment in his life when he knew what it was to kiss Jack Shaftoe. He wiped his cheeks – it wouldn’t do, to drip salty lamp-black tears on that face – and lay down carefully beside Shaftoe’s body. Lay there face to face, ignoring the rising breeze and the sand blowing into his eyes.

He mouthed, as though it were any morning of the last few months, as though they were simply waking up together on this paradisical beach, _Morning Jack. How’d you sleep, love?_ How thankful he was, just for a moment, for the vaulting power of his imagination; it seemed, truly it did, that Shaftoe was just sleeping there. He could almost smell the warm-bread smell of him beneath the salt. And if he leaned closer still, ah, that warm wind could almost be Jack Shaftoe’s deep calm breaths. And if he put his lips to those chill dead ones, they could almost be…

They were not chill.

They were soft and warm and strong; they were pursing against his own, that was breath, not wind, this was not the touch of a lifeless body, this was—

This was not imagination.

“Mmm,” murmured Jack Shaftoe, and opened his eyes.

Jack’s entire body seemed to plunge into a state of emergency, and every function shut itself down, save the unvoiced scream in his brain, and the only word it could form was _Alive! Alive! Alive!_

“Oh, crap,” mumbled Shaftoe. “I’m definitely dead then.”

“W-what?” breathed Jack, his heart restarting and launching itself into a tarantella.

“Though,” said Shaftoe, as if Jack hadn’t spoken, “I’m a bit surprised to wake up in heaven. Hah, Bob, you old fraud, weren’t you wrong on a few things! Told you it was the end as mattered, not the means.”

“Heh…?” said Jack, close to exploding with joy, and then reconsidering, and wondering whether he had finally tipped over into the full-blown madness that so many’d accused him of at various stages of his terrestrial career.

“You didn’t die too, did you, Jack? Hope not. Hope you’re just a figment. You seem remarkably like, I must say.” Shaftoe gave a sleepy smile, and a yawn, and Jack gaped like a particularly stupid sort of a fish. “Hope you talk a bit more than this. The real Jack Sparrow seldom shuts up, you know. But, hmmm; sandy beach, sunny skies, a Jack Sparrow; as long as there’s some decent grog and the food’s not too dreadful, I don’t think I’m going to object to being dead. Pleasantly surprised, I must say.”

“You’re not—mmmph!” said Jack, as Shaftoe recommenced that abandoned kiss, with a notable increase in fervour, breaking it off only to query, “Is there fucking in Heaven, or is that frowned upon?”

“Oh, shut _up_!” cried Jack joyfully, and put his hand over Shaftoe’s mouth as he opened it to protest. “You’re not dead, Jack Shaftoe! I’ve got no fucking idea why not, but that’s the fact of it, you’re not dead! You’re not! You’re not, you’re here, you’re, oh, Christ, oh, Christ…!” And he gathered Shaftoe into his arms, and hugged him close. Shaftoe struggled, and laughed, and fought free, and they both sat up, staring at one another, each putting a hand to the other’s face, one in wonder, one in dismay.

“How is it you’re alive?” Jack murmured, and Shaftoe frowned as though the look of Jack pained him, and said, “Why’re you crying, Jack? You look like shit.”

“I’m not crying,” said Jack staunchly, and grinned, although several uncooperative tears of happiness belied the claim. “Oh, Jack,” he said, helplessly. “Oh, _Jack_!” And he kissed him, fierce and hard, tasting the salt on Shaftoe’s skin and from his own tears, slipping his tongue into that warm mouth that he’d thought never to taste again. Shaftoe’s arms were around him; Jack writhed closer, kissed as though he’d never ever stop. A miracle. A living, breathing, kissing, blathering miracle in his arms. Life, restored.

*

Jack would’ve been quite happy to leave explanatory matters till later, much later if necessary, and simply enjoy the kissing; he felt a need to pay Jack Sparrow back for what’d obviously been a fairly unpleasant night. As he would’ve had himself, had he (a shudder ran through him) believed Sparrow to be lost beneath some benighted reef. Jesus. But Sparrow’s curiosity got the better of him. He broke away, a little breathless, and demanded to know what’d happened; then, before Jack’d even begun to speak, he leapt up with a cry of “Wait, the others!” and began to wave his arms wildly, shouting for Enoch. Far up the beach, a small black-clad figure turned.

“Alive!” Sparrow was roaring into the wind. “He’s a-fucking-live! Stand up, Jack, show them! Oh, that is, are you hurt, can you…?”

Miraculously, Jack was not hurt at all, and lurched to his feet with nothing worse than an excessive stiffness in his knees, and waved agreeably. Enoch started running, and his voice floated indistinctly down the strand. A few moments later, two other figures broke from the treeline; Burton by the look of it, and Martingale, and they stood and stared for a moment, and then they were all haring up the beach towards them.

“Bloody company,” sulked Jack. “What happened to you an’ me an’ a nice private reunion?”

Sparrow’s arm tightened about Jack’s waist, and he bestowed his very sunniest smile on Jack, a smile of such glory that Jack could not complain about… why, anything in the world, really. “All the time in the world, Jack!” Sparrow cried, and started laughing like a madman, crushing Jack to him. “All the time in the world!”

“Jack!” cried Enoch, and Burton shouted, “How can it be? How?” and then they were all hugging him and back-slapping him and Martingale looked fair set to bawl.

“There’s barely a scratch on you!” Enoch exclaimed. “What on earth…?”

Jack loved to have a tale to tell, truly he did. And there was nothing like a Return From The Dead story.

“Well,” he said, falling into step with Sparrow and putting his arm about the pirate’s shoulders, ostensibly for support (but oooh it was good to hold him that way) “when I fell into the pool – was that you, arsing about, Jack?”

“It most certainly was not!” cried Sparrow indignantly. “It was Pieter bloody Spitaels!”

Jack gave an evil smile. “I’d say I’ve got me some retribution to exact, then.”

“Too late!” said Martingale happily. “Captain Sparrow did for him already.”

“’Zat so?” said Jack, impressed, and oddly touched.

“Long story,” said John Burton. “And a nasty one. Carry on, Jack.”

“Pulled me down, it did. The water, or the Fire exploding down below, I don’t know; but it sucked me like a whirlpool, down so far and fast I thought Beelzebub was after a visitor.”

“Did you see the monster?” Martingale again, all big-eyed, and Jack briefly toyed with the idea of a major exaggeration, but the truth was surely horrid enough.

“Nah,” he admitted. “The water sucked me out through some nasty hole in the side of the well. I couldn’t get a grip on the rocks, all smooth they were from the rush of the water, and it was darker than the devil’s drawers, and that was when I thought myself done for. Came up a way, but ooh, my lungs were bursting, I was half drowned and blind and down so deep…”

He lost his train of thought for a second as a flash of those long dreadful moments came back to him; the tugging rush of cold forceful water, the unseen rocks crashing into his limbs, the dreadful flailing fear that was driving him near insane. A squeeze of Jack Sparrow’s hand, a gentle bump of his hip into Jack’s, brought him back.

“And then… well, the passage seemed to turn upward, and I smashed my head on the roof of it, and there, there was a pocket of air. No more’n a few inches deep, and stale, and nasty, but I could breathe.”

“Lord,” breathed Martingale, and for a moment Jack was sure that every man there could feel what he’d felt: that dreadful undersea burial, the cold, the blindness, the terrible knowledge of all that rock above his head.

A sudden report from the ship, out in the bay. They all looked over, and there was a line of men along the gunwale, waving and shouting, their voices taken by the wind. “They’ve seen you,” said Sparrow happily. He pulled out his glass. “I can see Bill, there; ooh, looks like there’s action on both sides, the reef party’re on their way too.”

“Can you see Djagdao?” said Burton, and Sparrow grinned, nodded. Burton ducked his head, a relieved smile on his face. Sparrow stowed his glass, and they carried on up the beach.

“And then what, Jack?” said Enoch.

“I just… breathed for a while,” said Jack, and swallowed. ‘Twasn’t much fun, thinking about this again. “And then… well, I could feel the current still. So I went along with it, and for a way, there was air. And then… then there wasn’t. I was in the last part of the pocket, and the water was flowing out lower down, round about my knees. Shallow, it was. Could barely get my mouth up close enough to the rock to get air… not much more than big bubbles, really.”

“Jesus,” said Sparrow, and he looked pale. His fingers were digging into Jack, hard, as though he could hold him back from that dark ghastly place.

“I stayed there for a while,” said Jack. “Trying to decide what to do.” _Cursing and swearing and smashing at the rocks and wishing the damn air’d never been trapped down here, so I’d be dead and out of it already. Shouting your name, Jack Sparrow, and telling you what you are to me, though you’d never hear it; just so’s I’d not go and leave it unsaid._

“So, in the end, the air was going. And I knew I couldn’t stay. There was only one thing to do. Water was flowing out there; had to lead somewhere. I just hoped I could hold my breath long enough to get there.”

“And you could,” said Sparrow.

“Nearly,” said Jack. “Jesus, the passage was narrow; thought I’d be stuck in it half a dozen times, like a cork in a bottle.” He felt Sparrow’s shudder. “And then it got wider; but I blacked out just as I came out into the open sea. Woke up on the beach.”

“With me right there,” said Sparrow, smugly delighted, and he sighed with all the contentment of some miss reaching the happy ending of her romance.

“Hell no,” said Jack. “It was still night. But I was pretty tired, and fucking sore. So I went back to sleep.”

Sparrow looked so disappointed, Jack nearly laughed, and then he took pity on him. “And _then_ I woke up with you right there.”

“He thought he was dead,” said Sparrow disparagingly, paying Jack back for ruining his lovely story-ending. “Thought I was an angel.” Martingale laughed, and even Enoch cracked a smile.

“Nah,” said Jack, slowing his pace, murmuring in Sparrow’s ear, breathing in the warm living smell of him, “much better’n that, Captain Sparrow. I knew it was _you_.”

“Better, is it?” said Sparrow, coming to a halt. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Enoch gently guiding Jamie Martingale forward, leaving them be.

“What good’s an angel to me, mate? What could any seraph offer me that you ain’t got?” Jack said, a smile on his face. The words might’ve seemed light and teasing, but there wasn’t a one of them he didn’t mean.

“I’ve no idea; but I can tell you a few things I’ve got to offer that no celestial being’s likely to get away with,” said Sparrow cheerfully, and pressed himself up against Jack in illustration. Oh, God, so good; after all that horror, all that certainty of death, all that despair, and now Jack had it in his arms again, that strong lithe body, those wicked sparking eyes; and all the lusts that’d been taken from them by that vile tea of Enoch’s had surely returned, in greater force than ever, it seemed. Jack’s vitals were swirling with simmery heat. Sparrow was hard against Jack’s hip; against every probability, Jack was the same, and he laughed out loud from the joy of it.

“Come on then, Mr Shaftoe,” said Sparrow, his face close enough to kiss, his breath hot on Jack’s cheek. “Let’s go and see what _other_ treasures the sea’s seen fit to deliver me today.”


	49. A Second Opinion, Chapter Forty-Nine

  
  
The morning sun blazed down, bright and glad, on Jack Shaftoe as he reclined like some Venetian grandee in the stern of the _Black Pearl_ 's gig. Burton and Martingale were pulling hard 'gainst the incoming tide; Enoch Root was enquiring as to whether Jack'd had time to make any observations concerning the persistence of the Greek Fire's illumination, down in the depths of the pool (an enquiry so utterly irrelevant that Jack merely shrugged and laughed); and Jack Sparrow, still red-eyed but grinning like a maniac, was there beside Jack, nice and close on the narrow bench, pressing against Jack's right side like ... like that very first night, when the _Black Pearl_ had plucked Jack Shaftoe from the little island kingdom granted to him by Don Esteban de Espinosa, and he'd sat there in this very same jolly-boat, smiling as hard as he could and trying not to flinch from the proximity of the painted popinjay who'd rescued him.

"Ha!" said Jack to himself, chuckling: and Sparrow leaned closer still, and said, "What's that, Mr Shaftoe?"

"Just thinking on how things've changed, since first we met," said Jack happily. "Why, we've courted death, both of us, in many forms -- pox and poison and Spanish vengeance; fire and weather and water, cold steel and hot --"

"-- giant squid --"

"-- Medicine --"

"-- Stone's cooking: aye, Mr Shaftoe, an' we're alive. Grand, ain't it?"

"Powerfully," agreed Jack. "An' it don't half stir the blood, the thought of all the ways we've cheated fate. Why, I --"

But they were coming into the shadow of the _Pearl_ 's tall hull, now, and the company lined the rails, cheering, yelling Jack's name as though he were some returning hero. Nothing loath to the role, Jack lurched to his feet and stood, swaying, to bow to them all. Martingale looked up at him anxiously, and missed his stroke: the boat rocked perilously.

Jack preserv'd his dignity by grabbing Jack Sparrow's shoulder, and then found himself unable to relinquish it as Burton caught hold of a line and hauled them in t'wards the accommodation ladder. Oh, the heat of Sparrow's flesh, under that tatty, damp coat! And oh, the wickedness in his gaze!

"C'mon, Jack," said Burton, reaching out: and Jack must let go of Sparrow -- a feat only feasible once he'd assured himself that the separation was a temporary one -- and scramble up the side of the ship, his disdain for the ladder and the ropes clear proof that he'd taken no harm from his ordeal.

He was aware of Jack Sparrow, beaming and nodding, behind him -- "Aye, there's no sea-devil's a match for Jack Shaftoe, lads!" -- as he ran the welcoming gauntlet of amiable blows, grins, nods, and curses. It was good to be back, to be amongst friends again: Jack found, to his surprise, that he bore no resentment to the men, despite the fact that their welcome kept him from a proper -- _im_ proper -- reunion, in private, with Jack Sparrow.

Jack twisted away from an especially enthusiastic blow and his hip brushed against Sparrow's, sending a brief jab of discomfort through him. The ache was quite separate from, and yet somehow connected to, the weighty throb that Sparrow's proximity had instilled in adjacent portions of his anatomy: and Jack welcomed it, for it was the perfect excuse to retreat.

"I beg you'll excuse me, Captain Sparrow," he said cheerfully, loud enough to be heard over the various congratulations and encomiums, "for I've a _medical_ issue needs attention."

Sparrow leered at him, and Martingale, over by the rail, cried, "Is _that_ what they're calling it now?"

Jack felt himself colouring, but he laughed with the rest of 'em. "Last of the Cure, mate," he said to Sparrow. "Perhaps you'd care to give me a hand, eh?"

"What, Mr Shaftoe, don't you want to see the treasure?" protested Sparrow, an undeniably devilish gleam in his eye. "After all your troubles?"

"Well," said Jack, "I _did_ nearly die for it, I s'pose." And he cast a warm look at Sparrow, hoping he'd remember that there was _another_ thing around here for which, for whom, Jack had willingly given up his life. Happily that sacrifice had not been required: but still, 'twas the thought as counted. "Let's have a look, then," he said.

The other boat was at the chains now, with Djagdao -- stripped to the waist and gleaming with beaded sea-water -- leaping up onto the deck to greet Jack. Ah, resurrection was a fine thing. And certain parts of Jack Shaftoe's corpus were most definitely resurrected.

The tide was on the flood again, and most of the reef-party were soaked to the hip, having lingered on the reef 'til waves were breaking right up against that central spine. West, who'd been in charge, was eagerly telling Jack Sparrow that there was more to be fetched. "Another chest at least, Captain, maybe two!"

"Why don't we see if it's a worthwhile endeavour, 'fore we bring back any more?" said Sparrow, stepping forward. The chest they'd brought up from the reef sat on the deck, the centre of a spreading pool of water that gleamed in the sun. The men were clustered around it, though no one seemed inclined to prise it open.

Jack Sparrow stooped to examine the hasp, then shot a glance at Jack. "Should be you as opens it, Mr Shaftoe," he said.

"What?" said Jack, tearing his eyes from the curve of Sparrow's arse. "Oh. Right." He'd lost his own knife, somewhere beneath the black rock: he grabbed the long dagger from the sheath at Sparrow's side, and inserted it under the rusty metal of the lock, and yanked it hard. The lock twisted and crumbled, and the lid of the chest loosened, but did not come free.

"Captain Sparrow?" said Jack: and together they raised the lid and pushed it back to hang lop-sidedly from one hinge.

A stale, rotten odour rose from the interior, though it dissipated swiftly in the clean morning air. A hundred years, thought Jack, since the treasure had been sunk: a hundred years down in the dark. (Reflexively, he moved closer to Sparrow.) Now the sunlight glittered and gleamed on gold, dulled by neither the heavy ocean or the years.

The chest held mostly coin, and rotting shreds of cloth and leather from the bags in which it'd been stowed. The water had found its way in, and so had other things. In one corner, between two stacks of rough-edged gold discs, something waved a pale, hair-thin tentacle. Jack jabbed at it with his knife, and it withdrew hastily.

"Lovely," he said, hooking the point of the blade through a length of heavy chain, tinged emerald with algae, and holding it up for all to see. "Plenty to go round, I reckon: and you say there's more down there, Mr West?"

"Aye," said West. "I thought maybe we'd try again tonight."

"Delightful," said Sparrow, looking round at them all. "And well done to the lot of you, an' 'specially those who dived into that pool."

Jack nodded. "For I wouldn't care to try it again, myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he went on, "I really do need to go below and attend to some _medical_ matters. No, Mr Root," with a good-humoured, quelling look at Enoch, "I'm sure that Captain Sparrow and I, between us, can take care of it. If you'd be so kind, Captain?"

"Oh, very well," said Sparrow, not looking at Jack. "Captain Turner, you've the helm. As it were. P'rhaps you could organise a little hunting party, eh? There's wild boar in the woods: we'll dine on shore tonight." And he turned and headed aft.

Jack went after him. As soon as he'd reached the foot of the ladder, Sparrow's hand closed about his wrist, and Jack let himself be pulled into the dark corner, his chin caught and held, and Sparrow's mouth hot against his own.

Perhaps Sparrow'd meant the kiss to be a swift, promissory one, but neither of them seemed inclined to end it. They had missed a great deal of kissing lately, Jack thought hazily, what with one thing and another: now was as good a time as any to make it up.

Only the sound of conversation on the deck above them reminded Jack of the possibility of being witnessed in such deliciously tantalising behaviour, and the need to find a truly private space for their reunion. "C'mon, Jack Sparrow," he muttered against Sparrow's mouth. "Let's, mmm, let's ..."

* * *

It seemed an age before the two of them -- having paused to kiss again outside the door -- were within the cabin, and the latch was down. Then Jack was at liberty, at last, to place his hand over Shaftoe's beating heart and step back, and look at him as slowly and as heatedly as he wished.

Shaftoe squirmed deliciously under Jack's gaze, and protested, smiling, that he wanted Jack's _hands_ on him, not just his _eye-beams_. "An' I wasn't joking, either, about getting rid of the remains of the Cure," he said, setting his own hand there, just by the jut of his hipbone, and drawing Jack's eyes automatically to _another_ convexity nearby. "How was it, Jack, when you took yours out? Hurt, did it? Or did it come out all smooth?"

"To tell you the truth, Mr Shaftoe," confided Jack, "I ain't touched them: they're still in me."

"What? Why? The week was up, last night. Surely they've done their work?"

Jack considered, and discarded, a variety of excuses. He swayed t'wards Jack Shaftoe again, breathing in the warm yeasty scent (spiced with brine) and the sheer animal musk of Shaftoe's skin: breathed in, and said, "Why? 'Cause it was your hand as set them there, Jack Shaftoe: and if a pair of splinters was all I was left with, all I had for 'membrance, then I'd've left them there the rest of my days."

"Oh, Christ, Jack," said Shaftoe thickly, and he pulled Jack close and buried his head in the hollow of Jack's neck, his mouth hot against the vein: though not before Jack'd seen a silvery glimmer at the corner of Shaftoe's vivid blue eye. He held Shaftoe close, and tried to steady his own breath: for, what with the anguish of so nearly losing his love (oh, he could say it now, in his mind; would say it out loud too, he vowed) and the exquisite shock of finding him again, not to mention Enoch's drugs, and sundry explosions, and the pleasing glitter of freshly-acquired gold, Jack's heart was a-race with thrills and reversals.

"Anyway," said Shaftoe, all muffled, "you _do_ have another remembrance: or had you forgotten that you've a bit of _me_ , knotted into your hair?" And he tugged on the pale, polished fingerbone that dangled against Jack's neck.

"I must say I've a definite fondness for the _harder_ bits of you, Jack," said Jack Sparrow, with a happy leer: and he slid his hand down over the tatty linen of Shaftoe's shirt -- must find him a new one -- and further, below the waist of his breeches.

Shaftoe groaned, and writhed against Jack, and set his own hand on the curve of Jack's arse, aligning them both so that the back of Jack's hand -- busy at _Shaftoe_ 's privities -- rubbed against his own prick. Jack thought he might spend simply at the gust of Shaftoe's breath on his neck, the feel of his fingers delving between cloth and skin, the noise he was making that was halfway 'twixt groan and giggle. Then Shaftoe was kissing Jack again, insinuating his tongue into the hollows of Jack's mouth in a steady rhythm, rocking against him: his free hand was loosening Jack's sash, pulling his shirt free.

Jack pulled away, gasping. "Thought you were in a hurry to extract these Medicinal Insertions," he protested, extracting his hand from Shaftoe's breeches in order to brush, ever so careful, over the place where the Cure lay embedded in Jack Shaftoe's flesh.

Shaftoe gave him a wide-eyed look. "Thought _you_ were more int'rested in _other_ insertions," he retorted, batting Jack's hand aside and dragging his shirt over his head.

Jack found himself temporarily struck dumb by the sight of Jack Shaftoe, half-naked there before him, light angling off the waves outside and casting a rippling net of light across his torso. There was a long, reddened bruise across Shaftoe's ribs. Jack reached out to stroke his fingers, soft and careful, over the graze, and Shaftoe sucked in his breath. His hands were at the placket of his breeches, loosening them: then he was kicking his breeches aside, quite naked now.

Jack could hardly breathe. He put his hand over Shaftoe's heart, feeling its steady thunder: then stroked down, over the hard ridged muscle, to the puffy skin that covered that dull sliver of wood, loaded now with all the Pox-poisons from Jack Shaftoe's blood.

"That'll wait," said Shaftoe, grinning. "I've something else that won't." And he laid his broad palm over Jack's hand, and tugged it further down.

Jack sighed for the bliss of touching Shaftoe, of Shaftoe alive and the two of them alone together and all the time in the world. He wrapped his fingers around the hard length of Shaftoe's prick, and slid his hand up and 'round and back: and Shaftoe made an inarticulate noise, and said, urgently, "Naked, Jack, oh let me have you naked."

Oh, it was hard to take his hands from Jack Shaftoe's glorious body, and put them to his own: but the rewards seemed likely to make this small sacrifice worthwhile, and so Jack kicked away his boots, stripped off shirt and sash, and stepped out of his breeches as quick as might be. That was haste enough, surely? Jack meant to savour every new-minted minute, now: to bring Shaftoe arching, gasping, laughing ...

"Let me tell you what I want," came Shaftoe's low murmur, interrupting the bright fragmented images that passed for thought, today, in Jack's brain.

"Mmm," said Jack, and he took two steps backward and sank down on the bed, the better to stare at the vision before him.

Jack Shaftoe, all muscle and golden skin, a halo of fine hairs limning his limbs, a hard heavy cock, a devil's grin, all knowing now, and a burning blue stare: Jack Shaftoe, stepping close, saying, "Jack, I want you: I want what you promised me, I do."

Jack swallowed, and looked up at Shaftoe, and could hardly breathe for the excess of his desire.

* * *

"Tell me, Jack: tell me what you want," said Sparrow, all low and hoarse, and he licked his lips.

Oh Christ that mouth: Jack wanted it on him. He most certainly did not want to waste time explaining all those thoughts of admixture and confusion, of Sparrow's tongue all sweet and fiery in Jack's mouth, of the distant memory -- a week, only a week; and yet it seemed an age -- of sinking his own prick deep in that lithe, yielding, grasping body, and marvelling at how it made Jack Sparrow moan and writhe and cry out in evident ecstasy.

Jack had no words to explain the horror of those brief moments in the blackness underneath the reef, the certainty that he'd lost Sparrow, lost life, lost every bright shining thing. Before, that -- before they'd come to Saint Lucia the first time, before Jack'd stopped resisting his own desires -- he'd cavilled and complained, denying even to himself that he wanted to fuck Jack Sparrow. What a fool! It had taken Sparrow's near-death, there on the reef in the middle of the night, to make Jack realise that he didn't want to spend his life wondering. And yet there he'd been again, wondering still.

Wondering how it might -- how it _would_ \-- feel, to give himself to glorious Jack Sparrow: Sparrow, who even now was sitting there before him, close enough to touch. (How could it be that Jack was not touching him? He remedied this sorry lack, pushed his fingers through the tangled hair, dropped to his knees -- the soreness of various bruises and bashes salved away by the sheer joy of Sparrow's hands against his skin -- and put his mouth to Sparrow's throat.) To bring things to a balance. To set aside the lies he'd spoken, to Sparrow and to himself.

"Make me yours, Jack," he said. "Yours, the way you're mine."

Sparrow's fingers rasped against Jack's stubbled chin, tilting his head 'til their eyes met. "Changed your tune, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Are you sure --"

Jack rolled his eyes. "What, denying me again?" he cried. "There was I, thinking you all keen to have your wicked way with me, and for what? P'rhaps you've forgotten _how_ , eh? P'rhaps I'll have to remind you. P'rhaps --"

"P'rhaps you talk too much," murmured Sparrow, mouth right up against Jack's own, beard-braids tickling his chin. "Though, come to think of it, I did say you'd have to beg me for't." And he kissed Jack, hard and fierce, and growled when Jack's hand found its way around his quivering cock.

Jack was afire. He wanted to taste that heated flesh, wanted it in him, wanted to bury himself in Jack Sparrow and have Sparrow desperately fucking his hand: but even in this delirious state he was aware that not all of his wishes could be fulfilled simultaneously. He groaned into the kiss, opening his mouth wider to Sparrow's invading tongue.

"Forgotten, eh?" Sparrow said, biting Jack's lip, pushing into his grasp: a bright flare of soreness as his fingers brushed against the protruding tip of one wooden spill, en route to Jack's cock. "You just wait, Jack Shaftoe: I'm sure it'll all come back to me, with such _inspiration_."

Jack found himself hauled up onto the bed: easy to forget the strength in that wiry form. He resisted a little, just to be reminded of it, and gasped as Sparrow bore him down.

"You prob'ly won't care for it," said Jack Sparrow close against his ear, stretching up to reach the salve on the shelf above the bed, pushing Jack's knee up onto his own thigh. "Won't be your sort of thing, at all."

" _You_ won't care for it," retorted Jack. "But I've done all the labour, 'til now: surely it's my turn to lie back and, mmm, enjoy myself." He had never thought to want such a thing: but it was delicious to sprawl here on the twisted sheets, letting Jack Sparrow arrange him thus and thus, having Sparrow's hand there on his yard for one long slow stroke, and then stroking down over Jack's balls, lingering there.

"Oh, I reckon I'll enjoy myself an' all," said Sparrow, kneeling there between Jack's thighs: and he leant forward and swiped his tongue over the tingly length of wood by Jack's left hip.

Shivery-strange, it was, and Jack bit his lip against the whimper that threatened to emerge: but he could not prevent his cock twitching emphatically against Sparrow's palm. Sparrow grinned at him all sharp, and stroked his own cock, and Jack made an inarticulate noise of protest, demand, affront.

"You don't seem to be begging me for it yet, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, running one long slick finger up the length of Jack's cock, leaning forward enough to bite at Jack's nipple.

Jack arched up and kissed him roughly, and advised him that he'd every intention of enjoying it as much as was humanly possible, though he might not be as embarrassingly _vocal_ about it as --

"Unh," he said at the feel of Jack Sparrow's long, slender finger, slick and smooth, pressing against his arse and, oh Christ, _in_. Wholly different to that first unexpected invasion, so utterly different in fact that ...

"Oh," said Jack, on a rising note, as the finger was removed, and Jack Sparrow's mouth came down on Jack's own, swallowing that plaintive noise: swallowing the harsher sound that Jack made as _two_ fingers, all slick and cool and strange, pressed inside, the sudden sting melting into something oddly pleasurable.

Jack's eyes wanted to close, but he forced them open. Sparrow was staring at him, mouth slightly open, almost _awed_ : and from the look on his face Jack's own expression was well worth watching too. Jack wondered for a moment if he looked as transported, as ecstatic as did Sparrow, with Jack buried deep in him: but then those two fingers twisted, and Jack could think of nothing but the way it felt.

"All right?" said Sparrow, leaning close again, pushing, oh God, pushing those fingers deeper, again, again ...

"More," said Jack, rather proud of himself for the clarity of the word. Sparrow grinned, broad as anything, and drew his fingers free, returning them reladen with enough cool salve to make Jack squirm: His mouth was on Jack's again, nipping at his lip, sucking his tongue and -- oh Christ, rush and stickiness and stinging pain, the salt spring of blood: Jack twisted away from the kiss, gasping, his hand closing 'round Sparrow's wrist and tugging it away from Jack's hip. Yet that was not where the hurt was, not all of it. A wave of weakness loosened all Jack's limbs, dizzying him. He let himself fall back down onto the bed.

Sparrow was kissing him again, slow and gentle now, and Jack moaned and held onto him, all mazed with the rioting sensations in his body. That hurt had been Jack Sparrow tugging loose one wooden spill: he could feel the slow ooze of blood from the place where it had rested, and an odd tingling under his skin. And his sinews, loosening now, were stretching around, around ...

_CleverJack, cleverJack!_ shrilled a small happy voice that Jack'd thought gone, Cured away or stolen by that shaman or drowned 'neath the black reef: but he'd think on the Imp later, for the head of Jack Sparrow's cock was pushing against, pushing _inside_ , Jack's arse, and Jack could do nothing but tremble and gasp and kiss Sparrow messily, mouth wide, trying to stretch and widen and open himself all around Jack Sparrow.

Oh Christ he could feel it going deeper, deeper: could feel Sparrow's breath all mixed with his own, both of them trying to steady their breathing, their gasps falling into a single rhythm: feel that slow grinding slide, feel the hammer of his own pulse around the invasion and in every nerve in his body, the throb of blood in his own yard and the tightening in his balls. Jack thought of spending, and then of Jack Sparrow spending in a hot sparking rush deep inside him, and he groaned and tilted his hips up, his knees back, and felt Sparrow slide deeper.

Jack could not move, save to open and rock and writhe. The fingers of his right hand flexed in Sparrow's hair, holding his mouth close enough to kiss (though neither of them had the wit to kiss, now): his left hand lay heavy on Sparrow's spine, and he slid it down, pulling Sparrow closer still. Sparrow's hand, under Jack's own thigh, rocked him up: his other hand curled around Jack's cock, stroking him hard and slow, thumb just _there_ under the head. Jack could feel the head of Sparrow's cock pressing inside Jack, against some secret place where he'd never been touched before, and the twinned intensity of the sensations felt like drowning. He groaned against Sparrow's mouth.

"How's that, love?" murmured Sparrow, staring down at Jack, impossibly beautiful, impossibly _himself_ , the reflected light on his face no brighter than the light in his eyes. Jack stared into that fathomless glowing gaze, wanting to speak, to cry hallelujahs: but he could not say anything at all, save for his love's name.


	50. impofperversity | A Second Opinion, Chapter Fifty

  


A co-written chapter, for the finale. Thank you, dearest readers, for all the love and encouragement. We've had the very best fun, and can't thank you enough for playing this game with us!

“Jack,” said Jack Shaftoe, but it was so much more than mere _saying_ : _breathed_ Jack Shaftoe, _cursed_ Jack Shaftoe, _pleaded_ Jack Shaftoe, it could be any one of those or a hundred more; every one of them flitting through and over his expressive face. And Jack Sparrow felt the same, felt the same exhilarating, confusing waves of sensation and emotion rolling over him. Ah, God Almighty, what a thing it was to be buried, at last, at long long last, in the hard violent heat of Shaftoe’s body; what a thing, to be the first one here, to be the one who’d broken down that barrier and made Jack Shaftoe turn his back on every expectation, and offer up his body to another. To a pirate, to a thief, to a murderer. To offer up his body to a _man_ , wild and willing; to crush that man with his strong lean thighs, to pull him down, further, in. To say that man’s name in _that_ voice.

Jack wanted to pour out a thousand glowing words, to give voice to all the thoughts that were swelling and bursting in his heart. To tell Jack Shaftoe what he was, what he meant, how glorious he was, that Jack would do anything for him, give anything to him. But how, oh how could he speak, when it took every ounce of control he had to keep moving, careful, certain, causing no harm or pain, for this had to be the most perfect thing he could make it. And perfect it was; oh, fuck, _perfect_ it so truly was.

Shaftoe gasped and growled and closed his eyes, and Jack hummed and grinned, and knew Shaftoe was feeling all that Jack wanted him to feel as he bucked and arched beneath. “More,” he demanded again, and he opened his eyes, stared shining blue wonder at Jack: “More, don’t you coddle me. Hard, and deep, as I fuck you, Jack. Show me. Show me what it is, to feel that.”

Oh, Christ, how could any man alive resist that, those words, that look in Shaftoe’s eye, the hot solidity of his yard in Jack’s hand? Jack could not; and though he tried to convey in some way, any way, that he’d slow or stop at Shaftoe’s merest sound or flinch, Jack’s body was making demands that he could not possibly refuse. And o the glory of doing as he wished, of thrusting again and again into that unbelievably muscular heat! He gasped blasphemies and adoration as Shaftoe grabbed him, pulled him down, rolled the two of them over onto their sides. Shaftoe’d ever liked to fuck this way, where the two of ‘em were free and matched, writhing and pushing and unbounded, all limbs and angle and sweat, and he was twisting his torso away from Jack, angling to take what he wanted, speeding and demanding, and Jack was losing it, losing every element of control, from his reddening vision to the crashing roar of blood in his ears to the hot rhythm of his fucking, and he put out a hand to Shaftoe’s chest, and made a little formless noise, biting at his lip.

“Shhh… shhh, Jack, wait, stop…”

“What?” said Shaftoe, scowling madly. “What the fuck d’you mean, stop? I can’t—”

Jack grinned and wriggled closer, gentling his thrusts. “’Tis our only first time for this, ever,” he said, low, into Shaftoe’s neck, where a rosy flush covered the fat thump of a vein. “I want it to last, love… don’t want it to end. Want to fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you. And watch you, watch you, watch you.”

“Uh,” said Shaftoe, dazedly.

“So damn’d beautiful,” whispered Jack, sliding his left hand slow and languid on Shaftoe’s prick, pushing sweat-sticky hair from his cheekbone with his right. “And here, with me, and ‘live, and… and everything.”

Shaftoe gazed at him, fiery blue, and bit at his swollen lip. “Christ, Jack,” he said, “If I’d thought you dead and gone beneath that reef… I don’t know what I’d’ve done.”

“I know,” said Jack, picking at the memory of his agony like a sore, simply for the glorious incongruity it presented to his present reality. “Oh, I know what you’d’ve done, Jack, for I did it, and it was… near beyond bearing, I swear.”

Shaftoe worried at his lip, again, and opened his mouth, and then closed it (hitching his knee still higher about Jack’s waist) and then opened it again: said, slowly, “Jack… you know that I… that I never thought to want another man, the way I want you. To care for a fellow, the way I care for you. I can’t bloody believe I’m lying here, being…” he blushed, so deliciously that Jack groaned, and thrust in a little harder, and little deeper; Shaftoe twitched, and gave a small moan, and thrust back. “Being, being, being fucked, being _fucked_ by you, and wanting to tell you that, oh mate, you’re… you’re all to me. All and everything.”

“And you to me,” said Jack, hoarsely. “You to me, Jack.” And closed his eyes, just for a moment, against the surge of happiness in his breast.

“So you want this to last, do you?” said Shaftoe, a wicked shimmer in his voice. “Or d’you just want it to be truly… mem’rable?”

“Can’t envisage _forgetting_ it.”

“Tell you what I want,” said Shaftoe, shoving hard into Jack’s fist. “I want to come, Jack, oh Christ I do, I can’t hold another moment; and when I do, I want you to pull that second spill, I want it all together and at once, the pain and the… not-pain. Will you? And I’ll for you?”

Jack just nodded; reached down, and ran his fingertips over the swell of wood beneath hot swollen skin. “Tell me when,” he muttered, and Jack Shaftoe closed his eyes, twining ‘round Jack, shoving against him. Jack took the hint, and pushed in deep, oh deeper still. Worked his hand quick and twisty on Shaftoe’s yard, and there, short quick shallow thrusts, and Shaftoe heaved in a great deep breath and clutched, and swore, _Fuck, now, oh, nuh—n—_.

Jack flicked out the second spill, and Shaftoe’s face twisted, he cried out, there came a hot gush against Jack’s hand, and Jack, watching it, feeling it happen deep inside Jack Shaftoe’s body, had no chance of waiting, of holding back. None. Hung there for timeless moments, suspended at the delicious peak of it, lights sparkling across his vision, open-mouthed with delight and awe and love.

And then Jack Shaftoe’s quick fingers were at Jack’s hips, and sharp and silvery pain bloomed just as Jack let go, came crashing and gushing down, waves of sharp pleasure pulsing and pulsing and pulsing in time with the shivery pain of the Cure’s removal, all mixed and twisted and evilly gorgeous, and Jack did not try to hold back the wail that rose in him.

*

Once more the boat was rushing, propelled by the powerful oarstrokes of Burton and Grey, t'wards the Saint Lucian shore: once more Jack Shaftoe was lolling like a king in the stern, having declared himself too enfeebled by his Ordeal to wield an oar. There'd been a couple of sidelong looks, at that pronouncement: more than one sly grin.

At first Jack'd wondered if what had happened -- oh, all the bright glad things that had happened to him, within him, because of him -- might somehow be written on his face, or perhaps in some other part of his anatomy. There was the bloody great grin, for a start, that he couldn't seem to wipe off his face. There was, no doubt, a subtle miasma of sin about his person: he could certainly detect a similarly musky, animal scent emanating from Sparrow. There was the way he'd been moving, back on the _Pearl_ : somewhat stiffly, it had to be said, and with the occasional wince. (But Jack was rather looking forward to the process of becoming accustomed to such ... such Invasions. Jack Sparrow, after all, never seemed especially discomfited by the aftermath of even Jack's most _vehement_ attentions.) And perhaps the effervescent glow that filled his heart was spilling over, somehow, into the ordinary air around him.

"D'you reckon they can tell?" he'd murmured to Sparrow as they stood waiting for the gig to be readied. "I mean, what ... what ..." And bootlessly fought back the blush that warmed his face.

Sparrow'd slipped his arm 'round Jack's waist -- a gesture of such simple affection, never mind the cunning spread and wriggle of his fingers under the waist of Jack's trowsers, that Jack was not disposed to resist -- and chuckled. "Aye, Jack," he'd said. "An' so might anyone within earshot, a variable distance that I'd conservatively estimate to be several miles."

Jack had blushed anew at this reminder of the sounds that Jack Sparrow had elicited from his (willing and eager) body, there on their bed below: but he could not find one atom of shame or regret within himself, and he'd answered Joe Henry's shy, nervous smile with a definite smirk.

Now Jack shifted on the hard wooden bench, coincidentally pressing closer to Jack Sparrow. Not only was he still suffused with a fizzing happiness that was as much emotional as physical: it was not exactly comfortable to sit still, either. The aches that shivered through his body -- the delicious burn, _inside_ \-- did not especially worry him; he paid them attention only because each twinge of stretched muscle, each throb of bruise or bite, provoked an answering memory, and Jack thought that the only thing more delightful than these recollections was the prospect of creating more.

"Looks like the hunting party've beaten us to it," said Grey, shading his eyes against the late sun mirroring off the water as he twisted to look over his shoulder at the nearing beach. "That's Martingale on the beach there, ain't it? An' old West."

"Excellent," said Jack Sparrow, beaming fit to match Jack's own lunatick grin. "Let's hope Mr Stone knows what to do with a pig or two, eh?"

As they pulled in through the surf towards the beach -- the beach, Jack reflected, where in another life (or so it seemed: this very morning, though!) he'd wakened to the blissful sight of Jack Sparrow's unfeigned and ardent relief -- a few of the men gathered to welcome them. Djagdao was there, wading through the breakers to grab the painter and haul the boat shoreward, and to murmur something to Burton that made the man smile. West and Martingale were right behind him, heaving the cutter up onto the sand so that its occupants could hop out dry-shod.

"Tide's near the turn, Captain," said West without preamble, falling in beside them as they headed up the beach towards the growing pile of driftwood that would become the company's evening fire. "What say we have another try at the rest of the treasure, before the light goes?"

"Whatever you think fit, Mr West," said Sparrow, gesturing as if to indicate that there were more important matters to consider, and bumping his shoulder 'gainst Jack's.

"Captain? Mr West?" said John Burton, all diffident, blushing as everyone turned to look at him. He swallowed, and said, "I only meant to ask if you needed Djagdao for that: for if not, I'd like to ... to ..."

"The gold'll still be there tomorrow, come sunrise," said Sparrow magnanimously. "And the light'll be ever so much better, it not being dark: no rush, is there, Mr West?"

West shook his head. Jack thought he looked more relieved than otherwise. The thought of that reef, after dark, sent shivers down Jack's spine: he stepped closer to Sparrow, the walking antithesis of the black cold lonely death that he'd brushed against last night.

"Off you go, lads," said Sparrow, and lifted a hand in farewell to Burton and Djagdao as they set off up the beach, into the forest: that hand came to rest, as to its natural place, on Jack's shoulder, and Jack arched into the touch, amused by the animal surge it sent through his blood.

"I've a mind," said Sparrow, leaning t'wards Jack's ear, "to inspect the view from _above_ , Mr Shaftoe: perhaps you don't recall it, but it's especially picturesque --"

"Picaresque?" interpolated Jack, having acquired this term from various (necessarily one-sided) literary discussions with Enoch Root, and pleased to find an opportunity to make use of it.

" _Picturesque_ , which is to say, worthy of regard." And Sparrow's warm black gaze rested on Jack with such patently wicked intent that Jack felt himself blush anew.

"Well-met, Captain!" cried a voice from off to their left: Bootstrap Bill Turner, seated on a heap of charred driftwood (ex- _Furia_ , deduced Jack) dispensing orders and advice to a small forage party.

Sparrow, Jack was gratified to see, rolled his eyes: but he turned his steps t'wards Bill Turner's makeshift seat, smiling a greeting. "Three fat sows for dinner," Turner informed them. "Sorted out your, er, _medical emergencies_ , Mr Shaftoe? Feeling all right now, are we?"

"Never better, Captain Turner," said Jack truthfully, resting a proprietary hand on Sparrow's shoulderblade and watching Bill take note of this. "Never better."

"An' that's another thing, Jack," said Bootstrap to his captain. "This co-captaincy business: I reckon it's served its turn, eh?"

Sparrow looked at him blankly.

"What I'm saying, Jack -- Captain -- is, I don't want to be captain, not now you're yourself again," said Bootstrap, in a low hurried voice. "That is ... you _are_ yourself again, ain't you? The Cure, has it ...?"

"Oh, I'm very much myself, _Mr_ Turner," said Sparrow, leering, and leaning into Jack's touch. "Absolutely and positively myself."

Bootstrap beamed at his demotion. "Very happy to hear it, Captain," he said. "Now, I've --"

"I'm confident, Mr Turner, that you have everything under control," said Sparrow. "Wouldn't you agree, Jack?"

"Absolutely," agreed Jack, keen to stave off another flood of tedious detail. Close to Sparrow, he longed to be closer: already it seemed an age since they'd dozed, all exhausted and overcome with joys both physical and otherwise, and woken sore and sticky in one another's arms, murmuring words of affection -- and more -- that Jack wanted to speak aloud, again, where none might overhear.

"Back soon," Sparrow said laconically to Bill. "Just off for a little, mmm, _promenade_ , me and Mr Shaftoe: we'll be back by the time the pork's done."

"'less you want to wait a little, and avail yourself of some _fat_ ," whispered Jack, or the Imp, 'gainst Sparrow's ear.

"You revolting Vagabond, you," said Sparrow fondly: and he took Jack by the hand and led him away, away from Bootstrap's eye-rolling and disgusted sigh, away towards the sun-barred forest, and the clifftop.

After a few minutes Sparrow broke the companionable silence by sliding his arm low about Jack’s waist, spreading his hand over Jack’s hip, his fingers bony and seeming hot enough to burn through the rough fabric between them. “Looks like you’re walking a little _freer_ , now, Mr Shaftoe,” he mused.

“Surprised, are you? Did you think to do me lasting damage with that, that weapon o’ yours?” queried Jack.

“Damage? No, never that… but are you telling me there ain’t been _any_ lasting effects, at all?” said Sparrow, with an innocently aggrieved air that (in Jack’s opinion) sat most falsely on his naturally wicked features; and Jack was on the verge of declaiming the truth of it, of the depth of the _effect_ that he’d encountered at the hands of Jack Sparrow, when his attention was caught by movement in the trees ahead. A dark figure, that presently revealed itself as Enoch Root, an armful of foraged Botany tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“Mr Root!” said Sparrow with a toothy smile, though he stiffened irritably at Jack’s side, and Jack could only sympathise with that secret sentiment, being wholly and sincerely desirous of solitude, and not particularly pleased to come across yet another interlocutor. “Collecting, I see.”

“Both medicaments and condiments,” said Enoch, in an abstracted tone, as he looked at them both with a narrowed and assessing eye. “But while I have you here, tell me: how did you with the removal of the guaiacum? I phant’sied it may have been… rather painful.”

“Mr Shaftoe did squeak a bit,” said Sparrow cheerfully, and Jack would’ve objected to the slander, save that it seemed such a great excuse for a) having caterwauled so, and b) extracting some retributive payment, later.

“How do we know if it’s worked, Enoch?” he said, instead, meeting the Alchemist’s twinkling eye with a firm set of his jaw.

Enoch shrugged. “We wait, Jack; and if symptoms return, why, we can repeat the procedure. But the shaman assured me that such a step is seldom necessary.”

“We could make a fortune, you know,” said Jack, and persisted manfully with the thought, despite the ardent fingers insinuating themselves beneath the waist of his breeches. “Back in Europe. With that Cure.”

“‘We’?” said Enoch blandly. “Do _you_ know how to identify the wood, Jack, or infuse it with the necessary oils?”

“No,” said Jack. “Do _you_ know every backstreet charlatan in London who’s got fine ladies and gentlemen convinced he has a solution to their embarrassing problem?”

“Do _either_ of you, I wonder,” put in Sparrow, “have a fine fleet vessel as could carry you, and your Supplies, ‘cross the wide Atlantic?”

“Gentlemen, I sense the genesis of a Business Proposition,” said Enoch.

“Aye,” said Sparrow with a merry grin; “And yet -- if you’ll excuse us, Enoch -- your erstwhile and prospective business partner and I have a proposition of our own to see to; so I’ll trouble you to, ah, direct your floral pursuits in another direction, ‘less you care to risk coming across some far more _faunal_ goings-on.”

This was too much for Jack, who bade Enoch a hasty farewell, and dragged Sparrow up the hill without further ado.

*

A lurid sunset bathed the beach in a warm ruddy glow; the spark and crackle of bonfires would soon be all that lit the party down below. Out in the bay, the Pearl rocked slowly, her darkening silhouette already picked out by yardarm lanthorns.

At the top of the headland, breathing deep from the climb, Jack paused, and looked down on his company, small and barely distinguishable at this remove. There was Enoch, nearly back at the fire now, though he walked along the treeline and occasionally disappeared into it, coming back with yet more plants. There, still sitting on his charry perch, was Bill; Joe Henry was at his feet, and staring up, enthralled by some tall tale. There, Burton and Djagdao, Martingale and Will, tumbled on the sand; as Jack watched, Martingale scrambled up, with a quick squeeze of Will’s arm, and went to help Stone where he was spitting the last of the pigs.

Jack Shaftoe came up beside him and put a warm arm across Jack’s shoulders.

“They’re fine,” Shaftoe muttered, close against Jack’s ear, breath hot and tickling and then joined by a teasing tongue tip. “Come, into the trees; there’s a good spot here, where the foliage ain’t much unlike bracken, which I’ve known to make a bed fit for a king; and…” he started to undo his shirt, pulled it over his head and Jack murmured approvingly, stirring anew at the sight of all that gorgeous skin, of the glint of setting sunlight on scattered golden hairs. “I sh’ll lay this down, an’ make you such a bed, Jack Sparrow; and then I sh’ll lay _you_ down, and return the favour that you granted me today.”

He took Jack’s chin in his hand, and turned Jack’s face to his, as though for a kiss. Paused for a moment, just looking, looking at Jack with such delectable warmth. So close that they shared air and breath, could feel the rhythm of each other’s hearts. Something chirruped in the dusk; the sound of muted laughter drifted up from below, and someone was tuning a fiddle.

“All we’ve been through,” said Jack, low, aching with it; “All of it, Jack, all the danger, all the trials, all the battle an’ fire an’ beasts an’ the rest of it: I’d do it all again, just to be here with you this moment.”

“You would?”

“I would,” Jack vowed. “Every part of it. Every single part.”

“Every single part? So you _still_ wouldn’t come back in time for me to avoid having my finger hacked off?” said Shaftoe, pointlessly contrary to the last, though he was grinning; and Jack growled, and kissed him to shut him up, pushing one hand up into thick hair and running the other down between them, his palm greedy for Shaftoe-skin.

“Don’t be so perverse,” said Jack, between kisses, and gentle bites, and promissory grinding. (And oh, there was plenty of promise there in Shaftoe’s endlessly eager yard!) “You know full well what it is I’m trying to tell you.”

“I do,” said Jack Shaftoe. “And I’ll tell it to you, too… once you’re naked, mate, and begging.”

“’Zat so?” said Jack, a trifle feebly.

And could not bring himself to argue further: but gave himself up entirely to the glory of Jack Shaftoe’s kisses, of the urgent strength of his body, and of the strange and true perfection that was the two of them, together, each twisted tight into the other’s arms and heart.

_FIN_   



End file.
